Reader, we murdered it
by phyll-and-doll
Summary: Having watched the movie and busted a lung each laughing we decided to share our amusement with the rest of you lovely people. Here's the result. Enjoy!
1. Watches, Women and Song

We watched the film. We read the script (you can get it off amazon for £1.77). We enjoyed it; it made us laugh. A lot. And then we decided to take the mick out of it, because it's funny.

Flame us if you must - all you want, in fact - but bear in mind that we... well, we just don't really care. We had fun. That's the important thing, right?

(grins)

DISCLAIMER: We don't own Alex Rider. We don't own the film, or the book.

Well, yes, we do. But we don't own the _rights_ to the film or the book.

* * *

The credits for 'Entertainment Film Distributors'. We sit and wait for the actual scenes to come up, thinking that, hey, if Entertainment Film Distributors are in on it, it must be good, and so settle ourselves in for a film of _Lord of the Rings_ quality.

We're soon disappointed.

The twinkling music continues.

Outside our window, birds twitter, crickets sing, children laugh in play, and it all sounds very Disney Movie ™.

A little of my will to live goes flying out of said window.

A moment of blessed silence.

Another sponsor, or company, or producer, or whoever, pops up. "Isle of Man Film". How can they create films on the Isle of Man? They barely have men on the Isle of Man, and even those are still faintly Neanderthal. I thought the only population of the Isle of Man consisted of sheep and rocks, interspersed with the occasional hermit. But, no, it is not so! There is a big shiny film company there, too!

And, apparently, they made Stormbreaker. W00t.

And, back on track.

ANOTHER BLOODY SPONSOR, OR WHATEVER. HOW MANY SPONSORS – OR WHATEVER – DOES ONE FILM NEED?!

A teacher's voice comes out of the darkness. I wish my teachers taught in darkness. They're not – how to say this? – the _prettiest_ of mortals.

_Yea, those who taught in the valley of darkness have seen a great light. And upon them the light hath shone, revealing their appalling dress sense, rather large noses, and unplucked eyebrows. _

Sorry. It's just – this film couldn't keep the attention of an MI6 codebreaker, let alone Phyllis and me. Dorothea, that is.

ANOTHER DAMN PRODUCER/SPONSOR/COMPANY/LESSER SPOTTED TWIT. 'Samuelson Productions'. Who was Samuel, and why, for the love of God, did he want to set up a production company?

But, once more, I digress.

Dimly, we can see children, blurred as if the teacher is seeing them through an opium-induced haze.

Well, in all honesty, if I taught in a school in central London, _I'd_ take opium. Hell, I'd take whatever I could get.

Argh! Close up of a teachers torso! Oooh, rather good looking…

OK. Back on track now. Really.

OK, we can now see the children clearly. Dammit, they looked prettier blurred. Why do they all look so _bored_? I mean, yeah, it's school, but… OK, yeah, it's school.

The teacher asks that age old question 'what is it that makes us what we are?'. I think he may be overestimating their abilities somewhat. These kids look so bored, I don't think they could answer if you asked them what their names are.

And, another damn production company. Did someone think, 'ooh, here's a way to make our film look half-way decent, we'll get lots of producers/companies/camels/sponsors!'.

Here's a tip, to whoever thought that: Didn't work, love.

Ooh, a gormless red head. He reminds me of Phyllis.

_I don't have red hair_.

No, Phyllis, but then, you don't have much, now do you darling? Time and Space, for you, are things which exist between your ears.

The gormless red-head – I shall call him Phyllis II…

_That's a girls name_.

Yes, Phyll, so you claim. Anyway, Phyllis II just whacked a rather good looking boy round the head? Is this Alex Rider? Apparently not. That part is reserved for someone prettier, and with markedly less acting ability.

Oh, sorry.

I mean, for Alex Pettyfer.

Well, at least he never had difficulty remembering the name of his character. Though, I wouldn't put it past him to try.

The teacher keeps asking mindless questions, which go on for long enough for us to span round the entire class. I don't know exactly what we're supposed to find so interesting about a bunch of fourteen year olds, but apparently, we are. And, let's face it, compared with the questions being asked, they're positively riveting.

Ah. The love interest has appeared on screen. Let's hit her.

She looks soigné and gorgeous, fresh, like she hasn't just spent a day at school, and I'm sure that as long as she keeps her mouth shut, she's a very good actor. We might even forgive her for overdosing on eyeliner that morning.

But not for those eyebrows. They are an unforgivable sin.

_Ew, is the ugly boy Alex Rider_?

No, Phyllis. He's not. They're trying to fool us.

I hope to God that they're trying to fool us, anyway.

Oh, the boy who _so_ couldn't be fourteen is obviously Alex Rider. Because, they couldn't possibly allow an actual fourteen year old loose on the part of Alex Rider.

Unfortunately, they let _him_ loose on it. I'm torn between which is worse.

_Who's a pretty boy then_?

Now, now, Phyllis, don't patronise him. I'm sure he's an actor of inordinate skill. snerk

But he is _very_ pretty.

Oh, dear. We just saw the teacher. My eyes, my eyes… they're burning…

_Do you reckon he's his catamite_?

No. Shut up, Phyllis.

Look, I read the script, OK, I wanted to find out whether they were ad-libbing all those truly unfortunate lines they had – they weren't – and it says that the teacher is supposed to be 'young, and good-looking'. Who decided that he was 'young and good-looking'? Father Time? Death?

Oh, and, yes, the girls are supposed to find Alex sexy. It says so in the script, so therefore, it must be law. He's pretty, I'll give you that, but so far, the most fascinating thing about him is his truly enormous watch. D'you think he thought that the enormous watch would make him look hard? Because… it very much does not.

Look! We just got a close up of the enormous watch! Score!

I think it may have been supposed to be a close up of his "fit" body, and Sabina – whore – drooling over it. However, as we've said, his watch is, so far, the most fascinating part of him, and, therefore, we found our eyes irrevocably drawn to it.

Apparently Sabina shared our interest. That, or she wanted to know where his jeans came from.

Oh, her eyes move upwards. I think she wants to know the name of his hairdresser. God knows she needs to do something with all that brown straight stuff.

_She does have very pretty blue eyes though_.

Yes, she does. But, on the other, why be so charitable? She's stealing your undying love, remember, Phyll, darling?

_Oh, yes._

_Kill! Must, Kill!!_

Phyllis. Please. Be calm. No, Phyllis!

Phyllis, get back here, RIGHT NOW!!

Excuse me.

* * *

Phyllis and Dorothea will be back next week, when Dorothea has calmed Phyllis' murderous tendencies.

What will we find out next week? Is Alex Rider a complete pussy? Is he actually the teacher's catamite? Is he anyone else's catamite? Are we going to see any violent action in this film?

Would it have helped if they'd got passed the first minute or so?

Tune in again next week to have all of these exciting questions answered – and more.

* * *


	2. Inside the Asylum

Here we go then; another fun-filled frolic in the field of film. Alex Rider: Stormbreaker. Enjoy, dear readers!

* * *

Right. And, dear readers, we return. Phyllis is heavily sedated and duct taped to her chair, so that no – unfortunate – incident can occur.

Seriously, if you think I'm joking, you should have see how close she got to beheading me with that pen knife.

I shall bear the scars always.

Luckily, the bruises I gave her are far worse. I feel better. Being murdered by a moron with exactly one and a half brain cells would be _so_ degrading.

And, moving on.

We left you with Sabina admiring the cut of Alex's jib – or possibly just his hair – before Alex took to the podium – we'd like to take the podium to him, and beat him with it – and, god forbid, the little runt, I mean, brilliant actor, starts talking.

Now, dear friends, and possible shared inmates, we are about to reach that unhappy point.

If you weren't in an asylum before you read this, we guarantee you will be by the end.

Or, alternatively, if you watched the film and liked it, maybe you SHOULD be in an asylum.

_I liked it_.

Yes, Phyllis, and where are you now?

_The Priory Home for the Handicapped_.

Point proven.

Right. And, onwards.

My, my, my, they have an ENORMOUS classroom. For so few people! I think 'enormous' is a theme which may recur throughout the film. It started with Alex's watch, and… well, if you'll forgive the term – it grew.

Not the watch, you understand. The theme. Otherwise Alex would be wandering round with Big Ben on his wrist.

_What is the Sabina girl (whore) wearing?_

I don't entirely know. But her shirt appears to be made out of a material bearing a remarkable similarity to my grandmother's curtains.

Enough said.

Anyway, Phyllis, you distracted me. What I mean to say, is – was the overly obvious check-out really necessary? I know she's a fourteen year old, and hence can be forgiven for overdosing on eyeliner, and wearing enough lipgloss to sink a small ship, but the eye flick is…urgh.

A moment of blessed silence.

He's speaking! _'There's not much I can say about my family_'.

Then, please, don't.

I think we're off to a good start.

The teacher just gave him the same eye-flick as Sabina. I foresee arm wrestling in the playground. Or, possibly Rock Paper Scissors? Hmm. Maybe they could be ultra-mature about it, and the teacher – urgh – could just give Sabina detention for the rest of her life. Or, possibly Alex, so as to have unlimited access.

And, back on track.

"_I didn't know my parents. They died when I was small_." I think someone must have banned emotion from this film altogether. Though, it was accompanied by some rather stunning eyebrow over-acting.

"_I live with my uncle_."

Argh! Said uncle just appeared on screen.

Ewan McGregor has never looked uglier. Well, possibly in 'Trainspotting', but that's because they gave him some of the worst clothes known to man. Then again, it was the 1980s. They didn't have fashion then – just accidents with unfortunate materials.

Though, that handlebar moustache they saddled McGregor with in Miss Potter really didn't do anything for him either…

It's a toss up.

Anywho, with orc-like efficiency, he revs his motorbike. It's invisible – somewhat like a certain Harry Potter car which shall remain nameless – we haven't seen it yet, but it has made its presence known.

Mind you, he doesn't seem to be doing much. Also, it's interesting to note that, with a stunning lack of subtlety – despite being MI6's uber-ultra-spy – he actually revved the bike up – hence making large amounts of noise and drawing attention to himself –before he put his helmet on.

Safety is important, kids!

Screw the fact that he's going to motor-bike out of a ball of flame, let's just make sure we're observing all the safety points.

And, here comes the helmet. Alex's voice overrides this little safety warning with the depressing maxim '_he's never around, so I can't tell you much about him, either'_.

He keeps telling us he hasn't got much to say, and, oh, how we wish it were true. For someone who has nothing to say, he's taking a hell of a long time to _say it_. And, my, but he knows how to enunciate his words! I wish whoever spent their money improving his diction had shelled out for a few acting lessons, too. LAMDA lessons are particularly cheap, I hear.

Ahah! A revelation about home life. '_I have a sort of housekeeper, because he's always away on business'_. Oh, I bet that delighted Jack 'I'm just an American housekeeper-slave' Starbright. In a stunning piece of acting – his one and only for this film – he manages to give a wealth of meaning to the words 'she's an American', and ends up implying that not only is she a second class citizen, but she is also in some way deformed.

Right. "_My uncle's never going to set the world on fire_," Alex simpers, in a voice over, as Ian Rider tosses a stick of dynamite casually over one shoulder.

Ooh, a little unsubtle irony! Nothing better to brighten up your afternoon.

Ian Rider does a very snazzy little forty nine point turn on his motor bike. To show that spies are cool, really!

_'His work means a lot to him, but, er… he never talks about it_'. Alex looks down, mournfully – I think he learnt the expression from his Spaniel – though, having said that, he might just be constipated, it's hard to tell.

_I think it's the latter_.

Yes, Phyllis.

We watch as Ian Rider – I presume this is Ian Rider, we never actually find out his name from Alex's little speech; fascinating that, isn't it? I mean, the way they mucked around with the book, we're going to find out that actually, Ewan McGregor has been playing a transvestite MI6 agent called Ethel, and Alex's uncle was actually killed on a golfing green in Southern Kansas – zooms along a coast road somewhere far too sunny to be England, and the teacher's voice overlays the whole, asking, with stunning tact,

"So, where's your uncle now?" he couldn't have sounded more bored if he'd been given an instruction manual for it.

The dramatic irony is back for another bow! "_He mentioned something about a conference in Cornwall – life in the slow lane_." Alex opines, his expression flashing back up on screen for a couple of seconds; I think he may have been trying for earnest, but he actually managed something between bored and stoned.

On screen, Ian Rider zooms a little more. Just to prove that, not only is his nephew unfairly dismissive and stupidly unobservant, he's also just. Plain. Wrong.

Actually, this little motorbike chase – I think they were just a _little too obsessed_ with not having a car chase in this film; we had motorbike chase, boy-on-bike chase and horse chase, but no car chase! Because that would be _cliché_, boys and girls – looks a lot like an advert for a particularly upmarket car. Any minute now, I'm expecting them all to stop, Ewan McGregor to get off his bike, take the helmet off, shake out his hair – heh, what there is of it – and say something along the lines of,

"The new Citroen motorbike. Va va vroom!"

In all honesty, I think I would have preferred that, at times. At least it would have had the benefit of brevity.

Oh my god! They're now on a beach – a beach which has NO SUN, and where the sea is grey and evil, and therefore it may actually be somewhere in England – riding through the sea, and kicking up spray, and oh Lord, I think they may actually have been trying to make this some throw-back to Baywatch on wheels. Like a Disney movie on ice, except infinitely more painful.

Also – just a quick aside here – _how did the inhabitants of this quiet little seaside town __**not notice**__ any of this?! _How?! There is a big ominous black boat, which is doing everything except broadcasting 'mwahaha! Look at us, we're evil' SHOOTING at some random motorcyclists, and this entire town is just going 'meh, whatever'. DID I MISS SOMETHING?!

Maybe they all just really hate bikers.

Except, for god's sake, they're launching _missiles_ at them. I mean, Lord, that is some _serious_ hatred.

And those old people watching the Punch and Judy show? Yeah, they must be _well_ deaf.

"_Woops-a-daisy! That's the way to do it!_" Punch and Judy titter, to the backdrop of MISSILES GOING OFF in the background – y'know, as they do in England's small seaside towns; think what you've all been missing, down in your warm, sunny climes! (OH, and, side note? Yeah, Mr. and Mrs. Deaf-and-Ugly STILL haven't noticed. Just thought you should know) – and, I'm sorry, but really, _what the fuck_?

Oh, I'm sorry, Punch and Judy noticed the evol men on motorbikes BEFORE THE OLD PEOPLE. HOW? That's really quite amazing. It means that _stuffed hand puppets_ are more perceptive than people.

Well, then again, there is Phyllis.

Hah! With a cry of 'Oh, what a pity', Punch and Judy go sky high. Pity? I think not! My faith in Nemesis and a higher Being has been restored. But – what about the guy _inside_ the Punch and Judy show? – what about the two old people?

Nah, who are we kidding? They probably didn't notice, the deaf prats.

_I wouldn't notice_.

Of course you wouldn't, Phyllis. You're stupid.

Oh, sentient gulls! I mean, yes they're normally sentient, but it's not usual for them to be more perceptive than the average human. God, I'm glad I don't live in this village. I'd have to be really, _really_ thick.

Phyllis would get on really well there. Wouldn't you Phyll?

_What_?

Point proven.

So, Ian Rider – we can tell it's him because, somehow, he managed to 'borrow' the only red motorbike – does a snazzy little slide on the bike (incidentally leaving half the flesh of his leg on the tarmac; nice), and thus, presumably, escapes the villains. Niftily. How quaint.

What IS Alex doing at the moment? There's been quite a lapse of time since he last spoke – Thank the Lo-o-o-ord! – but really, what is he doing instead? A strip tease?

Ew.

_Oh, oh, oh! Perhaps he's dancing!_

Yes. With a pole and some scanty underwear. For his teacher, perhaps? Dance, monkey boy, dance!!

Ew: The Sequel.

_Are you __sure__ he's not his catamite? I mean…_

Phyllis. We have covered this. And this is a Disney film. Kinda. There will be no scanty underwear or catamiting in this film. Or if there is, it's all firmly off camera!

Oh! Ian Rider just got shot! Maybe we can get them to shoot Alex too? A kind of 'two for the price of one' deal? Two birds with one stone – two morons with one bullet. My, I should have been writing speeches for Churchill. 'We shall shoot them on the beaches (check!); we shall shoot them in the skies (nearly. Kinda. Does 'attempt to shoot them sky high' count?); we shall shoot them in the fields. (we're working on it.)"

See? Much more rousing.

Anyway, back to the filmlet.

A towns person just ran away! Finally, a sentient being! (The one and only for this film?)

ALEX SPEAKS!! And, yes, he has that camp voice _down_.

Phyllis, your catamite dream may yet live.

_'I wish I knew a bit more about my uncle,_" Alex simpers_ "But he's not an easy man to pin down_." Holy Jesus god, he's gayer than a maypole on May Day.

God, dramatic irony is milking it for all it's worth, and Ian Rider isn't dead, more's the pity.

The screech of tires, and Ian Rider BURSTS out of a fisherman's shack – because it's SO easy to hide a several-thousand-pound car under a _tarpaulin_, folks.

Oh. My. God. He has 'R1D3R' on his number plate. Dear god, subtlety got lynched on this film, didn't it?

_May I throttle him now?_

No, Phyllis. The nice people will do it for us.

Ian Rider is undressing in the front seat of his car! While driving! So men _can_ multi-task – maybe he caught his nephew's pole-dancing urge? – though judging by the way his mouth is hanging open in concentrating, it's obviously a very. Difficult. Thing. To do.

We flick back to Alex – thankfully fully clothed – as he whimpers, "_And that's about it. The end."_

Is anyone else sensing the over-drive of dramatic irony? I think so…

I think something is going to come to an end. Phyllis would agree if she ever, y'know, thought.

_I do think though. Ooh, shiny…_

Um?

She's off.

Well, I know one thing that's about to come to an end. This latest instalment of the madness that is Alex Rider: The calamity.

Sorry. I mean, the film.

See you next time, folks! I have to go and save Phyllis from herself…

* * *

Phyllis and Dorothea will return shortly. In the meantime, please take advantage of this short interval, and don't forget to tip the waiter on your way out.

Thank you!


	3. The Path of True Love

Off we go again, treading where sane people fear to tread, into the grand field of film-mockery. Joy of joys.

Thanks go to all the people who have read and reviewed, even the people who didn't like it. We understand wanting to poke fun at something we don't like. For obvious reasons. Isn't that right, Phyll?

Of course it is. Right. Onwards.

DISCLAIMER: We don't own Alex Rider, book, film or audio tape/CD. This is something we thank God for on a semi-regular basis.

* * *

And, we're back again. I don't know how Phyllis got free of her duct-tape, but nonetheless, she is safely back with me, chained – I mean, _sat_ – in front of the TV. 

I'm sure we're both going to have a lovely time with the next instalment of our little romp with Film!Alex and his pals, aren't we, Phyll?

_Mmmphmphmm…_

Yes, I think so too.

Well, we're back to fill you in on what happens next in the epic disaster – sorry, film – of 'Stormbreaker'. So, are you sitting comfortably?

Excellent.

We left you in the knowledge that something is about to end in the world of Alex Rider, since he was proleptically ironic, and mentioned the 'end' of the fascinating story which is his family history. There's nothing like a pointless little scene at the beginning of a film to fill everyone in on what took a paragraph and a half to describe in the book, folks! Always remember that.

In any case, we can't say we were sorry to see Alex's little exposé of his family life come to an end, since it was quite monumentally boring. I could feel my will to live slowly ebbing away with each word… couldn't you, Phyll?

_Mmmphmphmm…_

Exactly.

Back on screen, the red-headed boy yawns, widely – we know how he feels – and Sabina Pleasure gives him a dirty look. She was, of course, caught in rapt attention by Alex's fascinating little saga, hanging on every single word – or maybe she really was just admiring his haircut? – and she was in a minority of, y'know… one, there. Though, a boy in the background appears to be taking notes, so maybe Alex's fanclub is bigger than we first thought. Or maybe… Hey, cheer up, Phyl, he swings both ways! Your catamite dream is possibly close to completion!

…Or maybe he's the prompter.

An old-fashioned school bell bearing the words 'British Made' (just to prove the pointless patriotism of Brooklands?) on its cast iron shell rings – if it's British made, it really _must_ be old – and floods of children leave the school, Alex among them. For some reason, he's the only person riding a bike – because he's _special, _or else goddamn lazy – and he approaches Sabina with the cool, suave air of one who knows what he's doing.

"_Hey, Sabina._"

- I think it's going well, don't you?

Sabina's friend – whoever she is; who knew, the Sabina-girl has friends!! Maybe she's like Barbie, and had to have them bought for her – buggers off somewhere, with a suggestive eye brow lift which implies that she thinks that if Alex and Sabina aren't doing the dirty, they damn well should be. But that's an image for a very, very rainy day, so moving on.

"_Alex_," Sabina simpers – obviously, she's taken lessons from Alex on how to be eloquent – managing to look both surprised and suggestive at the same time; no small feat. So far, she's the best actor we've seen… but then again, the competition wasn't exactly 'stiff'.

S'cuse the pun. Sorry.

_Pun_?

Phyllis! You got your gag off!! Good girl.

_What pun_?

…er… never mind.

"_I was wondering – do you wanna do something this weekend_?" – aah, the romance of teenage boys. So sweet.

Sabina is obviously less than thrilled. "_I can't._" She whimpers, "_I…_" (Must. Think. Of. Excuse. Quickly!! Washing my hair? No… too obvious…Funeral on other side of world? No, too tactless…quick!!) "…_have riding lessons, and…_" (Another excuse!! Hurry!) "_I'm going out with my parents_."

This film took a female character who we cordially loathed in the books, but who at least had a degree of character, and turned her into an insipid little bread-and-butter miss who wouldn't know spirit – or, y'know, how to ogle someone subtly - if it bit her, and wouldn't know how to be interesting if she was given an instruction manual. I'm strangely disappointed; and let's not even _start_ on how annoyed we both were on finding out that she was in the first film in any case. Someone pinpoint the moment when Sabina Pleasure appears in Stormbreaker the Book?

You know, sometimes we think (well, Phyll _tries_ to think, but it's not easy for her) that this film was actually some huge twisted joke on Anthony Horowitz' part; foisting a terrible script off on some poor, unsuspecting director, and getting him to act it out, while sniggering about having pulled off the prank.

And then sometimes, we're horribly, horribly sure that he actually _meant_ for it to turn out like this.

"_It doesn't matter_." Alex opines, turning to leave – male teenage romance strikes again! – only to be called back by Sabina, who, realising that this is the only offer she's ever likely to get – sorry, that she's 'really desperately in love with him because he's so incredibly gorgeous' – whines,

"_Maybe…Next weekend_?" Wow. Her thinking on her feet is even worse than Alex's! We're impressed.

Why is everyone in this film apparently a moron?

"_Whatever_." Alex accedes, gracefully. Curb your enthusiasm, please. Tell us, how are Charm Lessons going?

Sabina heads off across the playground with a little moan, to show her undying disappointment – she sounded like she'd just stubbed her toe, so we're pretty certain she'll get over it – while Alex, already forgetting about her and his own undying disappointment, cheerfully answers his phone – which, by the way, is continuing the motif of 'enormous, and no, I'm NOT compensating for ANYTHING', along with that charming racing bike of his.

"Yo, Ian, ma main man, whazzup?!"

…OK, maybe not. I think I'm hallucinating – prolonged exposure to this film and Phyllis will do that to a person.

Good God, it's the attack of the clones again.

Sorry. Ewan McGregor.

D'oh!! Ian Rider, even.

"_Hey, Alex_?" You know, for someone who gets described as a 'very careful man', and who always wore his seatbelt, Ian Rider isn't showing this very well – undressing in the front seat of his car, on the phone while driving… tcha. What are old people coming to these days?

"_Hey are you coming home_?" Please don't, you'll ruin the massive party I'm having at home tonight. With, y'know, me, and… me… and, oh Jack! She'll be there… and all my…many…_other_ friends. Including Tom, who isn't mentioned in this film at all, but hey they bent the rules for Sabina "Love Interest" Pleasure, why not Tom?

I mean, maybe they were worried about homoerotic overtones, but… um… Yassen "I'll never forget about you" Gregorovich? I don't think ANYONE could forget that little – frisson.

Moving on.

Ewan – oopsie, _Ian_ – informs us that he is on his way now, and expects to be home – coming through London. At rush hour. On a Friday. From Cornwall – by dinner. If that's not a triumph of hope over experience, I don't know what is.

_What's that mean?_

Still not the sharpest tool in the shed, are we, Phyllis? No, didn't think so. Shut up, there's a good girl.

"_How was the conference_?" Alex moans into the phone, and Ian looks away, into his rearview mirror – on the basis that any distraction is a good distraction, I would imagine, anything, _anything_ that keeps him from talking to his frankly irritating, insipid, clingy nephew; death is undoubtedly a welcome relief.

Two men on motorbikes – good God, the motorbikes are back; car and motorbike chase, perilously close to possibly-clichéd, folks! – are fast appearing. "_Uh, it was fine_." He mumbles to his nephew, flicking a gadget out of his car radio, and casually destroying the opposition.

Ah, so _that's_ how he's going to get through the rush hour traffic. Gotcha.

"_You know how they are_."

"_No, I don't. You never tell me_."

"Yes, because that would require me to, y'know, speak to you. Or be around you at any point during the day, when I haven't surreptitiously drugged you to your overacting eyebrows with some debilitating narcotic!"

…OK, so he didn't _actually_ say that. That's just what _we_ would have said. Isn't it Phyllis?

_Yes_.

My God, even Phyllis agrees. It must be bad – to make _Phyllis_ think.

Two missiles fly out of the back of Rider's car, and there are two more widows in England. Not that I care, you understand… I'm more interested in how the missiles hit the two very small targets _without missing_ dead on. But I thought a little human interest might be good for the story.

Ian Rider doesn't seem to agree with me, grinning like a lunatic, and adjusting his position in the seat. Any minute now, he's going to burst into "And I'm Fe-e-e-ling Good".

_Or "Good Morning, Good Mo-o-orning!"_

Yes. Or, "I'm so Lucky, Lucky."

_Or "These are a few of my Favourite Things_."

Mmm. 'Missiles and grenades and new machine gunners. Launches and rockets, electrical stunners, Widows and Orphans and explosive things, these are a few of my favourite things…"

It has a ring to it… Alex Rider: The Musical.

It'd probably be more successful, too.

_Or maybe "I Feel Good da na na na na na na I knew that I would da na na na na …"_

Yes, thank you Phyllis.

A burning wheel hits the ground, followed by an exhaust pipe. And a boot. Ironically artistic – it's probably up in the Saatchi Gallery somewhere – but it begs the question, where is the rest of the poor, bootless unfortunate who lost his life for the sake of Ian Rider getting his rocks off?

He will be forever bootless in the after life.

_Oh, oh, maybe "Oh What a Beautiful Morning"!_

Yes, Phyllis.

The radio reads 'destroyed – target'. Observant, isn't it? My god, we're a whole 4.26 minutes into the film, and it's already been destroyed for us – the radio is obviously less observant than we are.

"_What was that?"_ Alex murmurs down the phone, oblivious – God knows how – to the giant, determinedly loud explosion 100 metres away from his uncle, who is still grinning madly.

_Oh!! How about "I'm As Corny as Kansas in_-"

…

I'm sorry. I just had to hit Phyllis. I'm sure we'll get on well from now on, won't we, Phyll?

_Mmmphphmmphp!!!_

I quite agree. Gagging is _so_ effective.

"_Oh, nothing_." Ian brushes it off, wipes the smile from his face, and gets to the serious business of real life: Lying. And, y'know, pretending to care. "_Look, Alex, I'm really sorry about last week, I know I said I'd be there,_" At another of your interminably boring school plays where you play Tree Number 4 – your acting always has been a little wooden, hasn't it, dear? "_But this trip just came out of nowhere_." Of course it did. It's amazing what screwing your boss will do for getting that last minute assignment you really, _really_ need… Risking my life versus your TERRIBLE school plays? I'd take the life and limb risking assignment EVERY TIME.

Why does he do hand gestures while on the phone? I mean, normally, yeah, fair enough – but he's _driving_. And apparently Alex inherited his AMAZING eyebrow gymnastics from his dearly beloved but little lamented uncle.

"_As always_."

"Dammit, you noticed the way I sneak off every time you need me to hold your hand! Shit. Ever since you wet yourself back in Year 2 playing – what was it? Oh, yeah, Tree Number 4. Funny, 10 years later, and you're still playing that part. Either you're the best tree they've ever had and they can't bear to let you go, or you're really, _really_ useless. And, just so you know? I'm plumping for option two."

… of course, he doesn't actually say that. This film has just got to the point – _already_ – where we have to make the script up as we go along, just to keep ourselves interested.

"_Yeah_." Ian Rider agrees, with a shrug that implies he really doesn't care, an expression which implies rueful amusement, and a tone which implies that he's desperately sorry about all this. Wow, he comes second only to the Sabina-Plague in the multi-tasking stakes.

We're impressed. Aren't we, Phyll?

_Mphpmmphhhpm…_

Just what I thought.

"_Look, I'll be back in time tonight for dinner, whatever Jack's cooked up_," Yes!! Score two for Jack "I'm just an American housekeeper-slave" Starbright! "_And then we've got the whole weekend._" _Good God, two solid days of your undiluted company. It's times like these I remember why I employed Jack. Where the HELL did I put Tulip Jones number… I hear Shanghai is nice this time of year…or, y'know… Australia. In the bush. The Sahara's not bad either… god, you make the ANTARCTIC look appealing…_

"_Really_?" Alex simpers, astounded. This is the first time he's seen his uncle close up for more than two minutes in, oh, the last couple of years at least. Ever since he wet himself in Year 2 during the production of 'The Cherry Orchard' – by Chekhov, abridged into 5 minutes, and, y'know, simplified to the point of actual nausea – when he played Tree Number 4. It was a surprisingly demanding role.

He grins at the thought of redeeming himself and his dignity in his uncle's eyes.

Ian Rider carefully starts plotting his own death in order to escape the torment of the coming weekend.

Thankfully, as we all know, an Ood-like Damian Lewis – sorry, Yassen Gregorovich – is going to rescue him from this sad fate. Yassen Gregorovich: philanthropist extraordinaire.

Somehow, I'm not seeing it. You, Phyll?

_What_?

God, that gag didn't last long did it? I'm going to have to use something stronger.

"_Oh, come on, when have I ever let you down_?" Before that time in Year 2 when you played Tree Number 4… and wet yourself…

"_Do you really want me to answer that_?" After that time in Year 2 when I played Tree Number 4… and well… yeah…

Ian Rider giggles manically at the memory. He actually videoed it; he plans to show it at Alex's 18th birthday party – assuming anyone turns up. If they don't, he's going to send it to the headmaster of Brooklands. Blackmail is only fun if you carry through on your threat.

"_Yeah, I know._" He says, unrepentantly. "_Look, I'll see you soon, OK_?" As soon as I've booked that unfortunately placed 'assignment' (wink wink nudge nudge say no more, yeah?) to Shanghai. Anything to get off the phone with you.

"_I'm glad you called_."

I'm not. "_Yeah. Me too_." What? I'm a spy for a REASON, people. "_I'll see you later Alex_." Not for long!!

"_Bye._"

"_Bye._" You've got to love the affection they show each other.

Ian Rider turns the radio up full blast – careless, and also, omg, he listens to Rooster? Slightly worried now… you Phyll?

_I've never liked roosters_.

…yes. Well. Moving on, I think.

The lyrics fall from the radio "Then I see you again", and we're thinking he's never going to see anyone else, yes, SCORE, and then realise that this means Ewan McGregor is out of the film for good, and this is a bad thing because he's good looking, and MIGHT have ended up being one of the, oh, two decent actors in this film (the other being the fake lampshade jellyfish), but he was cruelly cut off in his prime.

Sadly – and this is serious, here, folks, because, at the time of writing, we just heard about it – like the late, great, beautiful Heath Ledger. Rest in Peace, and long may you be remembered.

Right, back in.

_Oooh, oooh, ominous music!!_

Wow. You can pronounce – no, wait, you can _spell_ ominous, Phyll? Good Lord.

_Does this mean pretty Ian is going to die_?

Phyll. Just because the last thing you saw him in was 'Velvet Goldmine' does not make him pretty. The fact that he was slender and gorgeous and somewhat insane – oh, and covered with oil and gold glitter, jumping up and down in the fire light starkers and performing lewd and frankly questionable acts with Jonathon Rhys Meyers – has no bearing on his prettiness. He is a good actor. He is a good _British_ actor. That is enough for me.

…

…OK, he's also quite good looking.

…Fine! Very good looking.

…

…

Fine. Yes. He's pretty.

Let's move on.

Ian Rider drives like a typical man. One hand off the steering wheel, confident that he's a perfect driver, and paying no attention whatsoever to the road and his surroundings.

We'll bet he doesn't take criticism well, either. "I'm driving perfectly well, what do you mean!? That man wasn't on the pavement! … so what that it was a zebra crossing?!"

A helicopter hovers ominously overhead. It's black and trying to be stealthy and subtle – as much as, y'know, a giant helicopter can be – so we're guessing it belongs to the bad guys. Yeah.

…

…

GOD. GOOD, LOVING GOD AND ALL HIS HOLY SAINTS.

Yep, we're Catholic, problem, anybody?

But, sweet JESUS, that thing is ugly.

Oh, wait. Oops. Sorry, it's just Major Richard Winters. Hey, those paratroopers are tough.

Sorry. We mean, Damian Lewis.

No, wait! _Yassen Gregorovich_. What? We got there in the end. Anyway, he bears a remarkable resemblance to an Ood! The scary things in that weird episode of Doctor Who!! All he's missing are the tentacles, and he's got red hair to make up for that!

God, sorry, but that REALLY is unattractive…

_His face is a funny colour._

(smirk) Ent it jest?

Ian Rider turns to look out his window, and, from the look of shock, horror, and sheer revulsion, he agrees with us. Damian Lewis is a fantastic actor – not in this film, but most of the time – and normally good looking in spite of the hair. Hanging upside down out of a helicopter _does nothing for him_. His face clashes with his hair, for heaven's sake.

Yassen and Ian stare lovingly into each other's eyes; then Yassen produces two guns and shoots him dead.

Ah, that's _real_ love for you. The path of true love never did run smooth!

…or maybe that's Yassen's way of saying, "Damn you, I've found someone else – your nephew, in fact…. He's pretty…"

Either way, we will never know since we are now into the credits – we couldn't actually WATCH Ian Rider die, and his car spin off the road out of control, into a massive fiery oblivion, because that would raise the rating somewhat.

It would also be realistic, and that's something this film avoids at all costs, because the car is a plot point, and letting it be totally destroyed like it would be in real life if the driver was shot _while he was still driving_ would ruin that plot point.

And that would be bad.

So, the glass shatters, a song starts up, the glass forms the word 'Stormbreaker', and it's all very James Bond.

Here, have a brief cast list:

Sarah "Straighteners" Bolger

Robbie "No Lines" Coltrane

Stephen "More Lines than Robbie Coltrane; Just!" Fry

Damian "Ood" Lewis

Ewan Subtlety McGregor

Bill "Tourette's" Nighy

Sophie "Helmet Head" Okonedo

Alex "Pretty But Dim" Pettyfer

Missi "I Got the Token Weirdo" Pyle

Andy "Even Less Lines than Robbie Coltrane; Impossible!" Serkis

Alicia "AWESOME!!" Silverstone

Ashley "Pint Sized" Walters.

And…

Mickey "Orange" Rourke.

Now that we've finally got to the beginning proper, we're going to round this chapter off here. It's time for my nap, and Phyllis' sedative shots, so we'll see you all when I'm rested and Phyllis is drugged to her eyeballs.

_Oh, oh, oh!! How about 'We are the Chipmunks, the Chipmunks are we…"_

Oh, good Lord.

…Well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. And it _is_ very catchy… '…_We live in the woods, a happy family…_'

* * *

Phyllis and Dorothea will be back when they've worked the Chipmunk song out of their systems. They may be some time... 


	4. Long Live the Morons

Phyllis and Dorothea return with another instalment of their - epic, shall we say. They wish you to know that political correctness may 'kiss their asses', and they have nothing against Tourette's sufferers. They understand that it is a horrible and debilitating illness. However, they feel that Bill Nighy's portrayal of it was far more offensive than anything they could ever come up with, and as such, you may keep all comments on that score to yourself.

At least - that was the jist of what they said. The real version had many, many more expletives.

DISCLAIMER: On the whole, Phyllis and Dorothea are rather glad they don't own this...

* * *

People!! Beloved fans! And that one flamer – you know who you are, and thank you for warming us during the cold February nights – we're back.

Please excuse the fishnets and stilettos. I've just come in from a hard nights work.

Right, so we'd got to the credits – finally – and we're into The Real Thing.

Awesome. You wouldn't believe how enthusiastic we are about this.

…No, really. Right, Phyll?

_Hmm_?

Yes, I can feel your enthusiasm. Or is that just the morphine?

No, _don't_ rip Mr. Twinkle's arm off, I'll just have to sew it back on again for you. Honestly, I hate you when you're on a comedown.

Ah. Sorry, yes, the audience. Forgot about you little people, _so_ sorry. Where were we?

Ah, yes, Alex Rider: The Calamity. And, now that we're a whole 6.26 minutes into the film – exactly two minutes on from where we were last time we noted the time, I think it's going well, don't you? – we're not going to bother correcting ourselves. This is just a calamity, with a thin attempt at masquerading as a film.

So. Alex is biking home, wearing his helmet like a good little boy, and looking quite remarkably stupid; he's also in the wrong gear, leading him to have to pedal really, really hard, and adding to his carefully cultivated Geek-Boy image.

Now, Geek-Boy is something very few people can pull off; Sam Winchester from 'Supernatural' springs to mind, or the Doctor in 'Doctor Who', even Harry Potter, at a pinch.

Alex? Doesn't manage it. He's probably the kind of boy who gets it spray painted on his locker. Or, y'know, is forcibly shoved _into_ his locker. Or, on a bad day, has it written on his forehead in permanent marker.

And his shiny white trainers really aren't helping.

'Screen play: Anthony Horowitz. Based on his novel'. Yeah. Very, VERY loosely based. Like, same characters, alternate universe. _Unpleasant_ alternate universe. Frankly _dumb_ alternate universe.

The books were great! Brilliant! A little childish, yeah, a little unbelievable – but, come on, they're about a fourteen year old spy, someone please point out the blinding realism in that situation?! – but the film…

Well. I think we've made our feelings on the film _quite clear._

Also, random side-point, but – why doesn't he have a uniform? I swear most British state schools have uniforms. It says in the _books_ that he has a uniform.

Oh, wait, what am I thinking?! That'd be _realistic_. And we can't have that, now can we?

And he probably wouldn't look as 'fit' in grey flannel trousers and a really ill-fitting blazer. And a tie in a truly nasty shade of green… Once more, the sacrifice of reality for the film. It's a poor substitute at best.

Hmm, a lovely little dirt-track skid there. Except, y'know, I did a better dirt track skid than that when I was twelve!!

…and then moved on to other forms of – 'entertainment', but that's another story entirely.

My COUSIN does better dirt track skids than that, and she still has stabilisers!!

Good god… will to live… ebbing… dying… gone.

So. Alex enters his humble abode in upmarket Chelsea – hate the modernism, but then, my family pile is all Chippendale and Queen Anne, with a couple of Holbeins and Vermeers around the place… can't stand this modern junk.

An ominous silence hangs over the house, as Alex – showing his observational skills and also his total lack of instinct; remind us again why this kid is supposed to be obvious MI6 material? – bellows (or, rather, whines; Ian Rider had a point, at the moment, seppuku is looking preferable to spending any time whatsoever with this kid)

"_Jack_?"

We see a Japanese knife being unsheathed, and try not to get our hopes up too high. Wise, considering that we still have over two hours of this film to suffer through, and even the Archbishop of Canterbury couldn't drag a funeral out for that long.

Well. Unless it's a state funeral, I guess. Henry V's funeral went on for six days – but he was laid in state. If they laid Alex in state, people would scrawl things on his shroud.

Who says you can't speak ill of the dead?

Thankfully, Alex isn't dead, so we can both criticise him and escape anything even resembling divine retribution.

That said, this film is something like eternal torment, so, maybe…

What do you think, Phyll?

_Hsssssssssssss_…

Yep. _Hate_ you on a come down.

An irritating samisen plinks in the background, and once again we are given an exclusive sneak-peek at Alex's amazing shiny white trainers.

They do have yellow on them, though. I suppose he's somewhat saved.

And I _like_ his jeans – but they look worryingly like a pair I own, which really says something about where Alex is buying his clothes. Someone should really have taken him to one side, and told him, kindly and gently, that Topman was upstairs. That was a cruel trick of the assistants.

Oh, and he's wearing eyeliner too! Maybe the Topshop thing wasn't a mistake? Hmmmm…

"_Ja-a-a-a-a-a-a-ack_?" he whines again. God, if whoever's holding that knife doesn't kill him, I will. Or maybe Jack _should_ – you know, just to put him out of his misery – if she hasn't done the sensible thing, and gone to hide in the airing cupboard.

That bloody samisen is really irritating. Phyllis thinks so too – she's chewing my chairleg at the moment.

I suppose I should stop her, but if I let her chew it for long enough, I can claim on the insurance.

"_Jack, are you here_?"

"No! No, I'm not!! I'm not here! There's nobody here but us chickens!"

Jack, of course, doesn't say that. She stays silent in her airing cupboard. And armed to the teeth. Adds a whole new meaning to 'silent but deadly'.

Given how dirty the knife is, she's already killed someone with it. I'm already predisposed to like this girl.

A woman wearing too much mascara glares at a knife from under a truly unfortunate headband – we watch as she raises the deadly tempered steel over her head – we wait with bated breath for her to make the killing blow – Phyllis pauses in her gnawing to watch Alex being skewered on a Japanese blade – and the knife falls.

Onto a cucumber.

I feel cheated.

And it is the Japanese language which is skewered on Alex's appalling accent. I mean, really, _ouch_.

They've managed to make Jack "I'm Just an American housekeeper-slave" Starbright into a moron. A real, bona fida, card-carrying _twit. _She probably attends the monthly 'Idiots Anonymous' meetings.

I mean, I loved Alicia Silverstone in this film, I genuinely thought she was the best thing it had going for it, because she was just _normal_ and fun, but apparently normal and fun for an American is only achieved by acting like a brain dead vegetable and chopping up all the other vegetables with a too-large knife.

Remind me _never_ to visit America. God, do they have, like, vegetable-chopping nights over there?

Like, so totally awesome.

Seriously! Argh!! I have family in America, and _good god_, no wonder 'Darrius' Sayle – kiss my ass, political correctness – felt discriminated against, if this is how we represent Americans in English fiction.

For a few moments, the music sounded like the intro to 'Colours of the Wind'. Ah, yes, I can see the scene…

…_Jack burst from the airing cupboard she had stashed herself in, still dressed in full traditional Japanese costume – the shoes were surprisingly difficult to walk in – still armed to teeth, but now accompanied by several small, fluffy animals which are in no way native to Chelsea and wearing a feather in her hair, probably from the chickens out back; apart from the expected squirrels and one rather confused West-Highland terrier, there was a turtle, a racoon and a small, fat pug dog._

"_You think I'm an ignorant savage!" she sang, defiantly, about to continue when Alex looked at her, raised one eyebrow and shrugged._

"_Well, yeah. Duh."_

_Jack deflated. Taken aback, she returned to her vegetable massacre_…

…oooh, _so_ much more fun.

Alicia Silverstone screams down at the vegetable, evidently moving her feelings for Alex onto the poor, defenceless, innocent cucumber – "_Alex's neck, Alex's neck… or some other, more delicate part of his anatomy I'd like to remove, slowly and forcibly_" – and it is on her expression of tortured anguish that we froze our screen.

Poor, poor woman. The things she suffered for her art – or, this film, which is nowhere near approaching art. Though, there is that thing where some German artist is going to take an old, dying person, and put them on display in an art gallery, because apparently the moment of death is art. This is apparently the principle upon which Geoffrey Sax is working.

And really, that moment is NOT attractive.

Alex gives her a look of patronising indulgence – "_Let's humour the poor brain-dead American" _is practically written on his forehead (vying with 'GEEK', one assumes) – and then he commits statutory rape upon our ears. We're not under sixteen, you understand, but imposing a Japanese accent _that_ bad upon our miserable, innocent ears will always be auditory rape.

They are apparently having a "special" dinner – by her expression (and the way she looks at the katana-come-vegetable-knife she's holding), we assume that Alex's fingers will be being served up as the entrée, followed by that other, more delicate part she removed earlier ("Here's one I prepared earlier, kids!"), with a side-salad, and soy sauce.

_Yummy._

Oh, good Lord, the munchies are back. No, Phyllis, you just go back to your chair leg – it will be much tastier than any part of Alex's …

…

…anatomy.

_What's ananananatomy?_

Phyllis? _Do_ shut up.

Oh, dammit. The special is only 'sushi-yo' – aka a poisonous pufferfish. Eat it, Alex, eat it!!

…maybe that is her plan in putting it in front of Alex. If the poison doesn't get him, the spikes will. Maybe she was hoping he would slam his hand down on it, when he leapt so nimbly up onto the counter, like the uber-ultra spy wannabe he is.

We hoped it with her.

(And I find it strange that the fish bears such a strong resemblance to Alex Pettyfer. Y'know… pouty… blown up beyond all proportion… Ooh, blowing Alex Pettyfer up. Teehee…)

And Alicia Silverstone SO got the sushi things from Marks and Spencers. For judging by the way she STABS her chopsticks into a perfectly innocent piece of sea-life, we wouldn't trust her with a knife any further than we could throw her. Though, maybe that's just to further her "I am a braindead American stereotype" look, the poor woman.

The look on her face as she does it is almost – Neanderthal.

So, dinnertime conversation in the Rider household. Alex whines. And then whines a little bit more. "My Uncle doesn't love me" whinge whinge "My uncle isn't here" moan moan "My Uncle didn't come to my school play" whine whine whine "My uncle gave me pink socks for Christmas" whine moan whinge "My uncle is a gay transvestite called Ethel" whimper moan sob "My uncle made me a homosexual" whimper wibble moan groan death.

Oh, bite me.

_What_?!

No, Phyllis, _figuratively_ speaking. Go back to your chair leg.

Alicia Silverstone "Jack" backs away a little, and mutters something about soothing drinks. Or maybe strychnine – she wasn't clear. She wasn't clear about who the drink was for, either; if we had been subjected to a long exposure to Alex "Whining" Rider, we would drink strychnine too. Maybe that's the secondary reason for The Sword and The Pufferfish (wouldn't that be a fantastic title for a romantic novel – in a kind of "Romeo and Juliet, everybody dies" kind of way). I mean, you know. The choice between Alex and the Pufferfish is easily made.

"_Alex… pufferfish…Alex…pufferfish…Alex_…"

"_Ja-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ck?_mo-o-o-o-a-a-a-a-nnn"

"…_pufferfish."_

The doorbell rings, and there is a bitter, bitter irony to "Jack's" line "_Who's a genius_?" Especially given the less-than-stellar intellect displayed in her previous lines '_All the more for US stabitty-stab maim maim die shellfish die_" and "_all the good-looking men in this country are either gay or married_" (Where has she been looking, the local gay bars? Swingers parties?!) "_except for you, but you're too young_" and… and…

…well. Most of her lines, really.

I mean, I'm the first in line to be rabidly, jingoistically British, but even _I_ don't slag off the Americans (and menfolk) that much. Even _Phyllis_ doesn't, and she wouldn't recognise America (or men) if she saw them. It. Whatever.

_Men_?

Firstly, that's my line, and secondly, they're not tasty, Phyll. Go back to y'r chairleg.

Well, they _are_ tasty – very tasty – but not in the way that Phyllis is imagining: lightly fried and basted, served up with chips and a side order of ketchup.

Alex strolls gently towards the door, suddenly going slightly lopsided (really, what was the thinking behind that camera angle? '_quick, do it on an angle, he'll look better, we can't see his face so clearly_'?) – it's the puffer-fish venom, it's taking its toll! Score one for the Americans! It takes a true genius to try and poison someone with fugu – and then the red and blue flashing lights become obvious (Hallucinations! Score Two!!) and then his soul walks clean out of his body. W00t!! Game, set and MATCH, to the Americans!

I've never cheered so hard for the opposite team in. My. Life.

The Morning After. And there is a hearse outside the humble Chelsea abode of Rider, Esq.

Thank god. It really did work – we weren't hallucinating. Maybe they could have a double-billed funeral – y'know, "This Grave Stars Alex and Ian Rider! Rot in Peace." And it saves on Jack's inheritance. Not to mention her clothes budget; one trip out in black and she's good to go. And then she can part-ay without any feeling of impropriety.

So, we head inside the Rider House of Horror, expecting to see Jack dancing to "Celebrate Good Times, COME ON!", only to hear the melancholic music in the background – which automatically indicates the presence of…

…ew. Yeah, that.

Him. It. The Thing.

It came from beneath the sink, folks!

…no, seriously, it really did. What did he style his hair with, the plunger? Because that is – seriously unpleasant.

I mean, honestly, the boy has more streaks in his hair than mine, and my hair's been bleached since I was eight!

Incident with toilet bleach. Ask not.

Oh, no. Wait. I got it. He shares the same hairdresser as Mrs. Jones. This guy must also be a fully paid up member of Helmet Hair for You (it's literature – "Does your Hairdresser hate you? Then you too could be part of our club! Our hair is so waxed, NOTHING gets through it! Not even thoughts!). They meet on a Thursday afternoon for tea and biscuits, and to compare their Warhammer models. Alex's are good, but Mrs. Jones' are the envy of the group, because hers are REAL.

Alicia Silverstone appears, with a truly convincing and even moving expression of uncomfortable grief – the grief that feels out of place – only to have the entire scene totally shot to pieces by The Side Parting of Doom. And, y'know, Alex Pettyfer's incredible eyebrow gymnastics on his otherwise totally blank face. He takes a deep breath, and futilely, we hope he might be choking.

Then we remember he wouldn't be breathing, and heave our own deep sigh of regret. Only, we are ten times more realistic, for we feel the pain. Oh, the pain.

Alicia Silverstone wraps her arms around Geek-Boy-Wannabe – we feel deeply for her – and steers him out of the room, as he looks into the distance, and his lip trembles ominously. He looks as though he expects Uncle Ethel to be there, but since his nose is totally dominating his face at this point, the only point we find genuinely interesting is that, if his lip trembles any harder, it will enter his left nostril at top speed in an truly grotesque way – and oh my god I think this might be the most disgusting thing anyone has ever forced me to sit through. Ever.

Maybe it will stay there, and we won't have listen to him Whine any more.

_Because he'll choke on his own-_

Yes, thank you, Phyllis!

Though, it's nice to see you're coherent again. I'm not giving you anymore of my stash for a long time.

As they leave the room – presumably for the funeral of ol' Ethel – the camera pans in on a photo of poor, benighted Uncle Ethel and Alex "The Whine" Rider, Ruling UK Whining Champion 2006, 2007, 2008 – he already has the trophy for 2009, since we all know who's going to win.

Anywho, they seem to be sat on the edge of a large precipice, and from the truly manic grin on Uncle Ethel's face, we assume that his darlingest wish at this moment is to shove his darlingest nephew _off_ said precipice. Sadly, this event was encumbered by the presence of the photographer.

Incidentally, the photographer did not survive the climbing trip. After the eighteenth Whine, Uncle Ethel got frustrated, and strangled the poor man with a mixture of his own film and some dental floss – a good spy is always prepared. This was the only photo which made it back in one piece. And, y'know, blood-less.

And now, the funeral itself – _"We are gathered here today-_ to witness the marriage of this corpse and this boy," in our imagination the priest – suddenly and inexplicably blessed with inhuman strength totally unbefitting his weedy-ass frame – grabs Alex by his horrific tie and flings him into the grave. If we were lucky, Sam and Dean Winchester (in Chelsea on holiday, we assume – or to investigate the sudden increase in Death by Demonic Whine which has sprung up around Chelsea; ooh, Alex Rider, Demonically Possessed… it has a ring. Not as sexy as Evil!Sammy Winchester (apologies, all non-SN fans), but SOOO much more fun to kill, maybe we could option the motion picture rights after we're through with Alex Rider: The Musical) would pop up from behind a nearby gravestone, and start shovelling dirt and salt into the grave, with manic glee on their faces. "They shall be bound together for all eternity." Continues the priest, and the entire congregation chants,

"AAAAYYY- MEN, brudah!" Because, for some reason, the congregation are all from England with (bad) Texan accents. Much in the same way Sammy and Dean are from Kansas and have (real) Texan accents. Meh, details.

The reality is much less interesting. "_To bid farewell to a man called before his time_" – actually, we'd have said Ian/Ethel was a curiously old-fashioned name, but – whatever works. "_A reminder that, even in the midst of life, we are all of us walking together in the shadow of death_."

…

Cheerful, isn't he?

Then again, I suppose, we're not that cheerful ourselves. She who is without sin, and all that – "let her cast the log out of her own knickers before removing the splinter from her friend's arse"… or something to that effect. Sunday School was never my _forte._

The Side-Parting of Doom has come back for another bow. Couldn't we just bury Alex's toupee and have done with it? Or, rip his hair from his head and dance on it?

Not even just a little bit?

Aw, shucks.

"_Ian Rider was a_," total fucking bastard who cheated at cards? No, too harsh at his funeral… A wanker who scammed little old ladies for their pensions? No… wrong register. An ex-lover (A/N o.O got around, didn't he?!) I was about to exchange for his pretty, _pretty_ nephew – despite the cat which crawled onto his head and died there, quite a while ago, judging by the mange? No, not the best way to announce my undying lust. I mean, love! Dammit, what to say, what to say… I've got it! 'Good'! Nice – all-encompassing…. He might have been a raging psychopath called Ethel, but boy, he was good at it! _"Good man." _And now, to round off. _"Everyone who worked with him will remember him for his courage, and his loyalty_."

OK, OK, TIME-OUT!!

Jesus Lord, could they be any less subtle?! 'Courage'?! He was supposed to be a banker! What, pray, was he being courageous against in his oh-so-dangerous bank-job? Did he bravely battle the dreaded Income Tax Return?! Did he valiantly skewer the fearsome Budget-Slashers from Accounts? Did he stomp heroically upon the gremlins of rising interest rate?! I THINK NOT!

pants

Sheesh.

As for his loyalty… well, his lovers disagree. Why d'you think Yassen Gregorovich shot him?

_But wasn't that to get to his pretty-_

Shut up, Phyllis.

Onwards, dear watchers.

AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!

Heaven help us, a close up of the priest. Though, I suppose, if heaven had anything to do with this, they wouldn't have made us suffer through a close-up of this particular heavenly minion.

His nose and ears are battling ferociously for dominance. He's like a bit-part Christopher Eccleston (The Ninth Doctor, y'all), except all his facial features have been crammed into one, miniscule space – like God had pieces left over, and decided to shove them all, à la Picasso, onto one, tiny canvas. This leaves one, massive expanse of forehead with which to terrify small children, and a nose with ears large enough to help it fly. He's like – a nose angel.

_Like a nose-bat!_

…I prefer Nose-Angel.

So, the Nose-Angel continues to sermonise, nostril-way. Thus, he speaks: _"He was, above all, a true patriot_."

Can you all hear that shriek, dearest of readers? That is Subtlety dying, an agonising, _writhing_, shrieking death.

This entire film is like – the worst kind of cautionary tale. A visual What-Not-To-Do Guide.

Of course, Poor Ethel's entire life seems to be a What-Not-To-Do Guide, or you too could end up with a nephew who is the Three Times Heavyweight Whining Champion for the Western Hemisphere.

Poor Ethel.

Alex, by Jack, bellows – continuing, we assume, the masque of Death by the Blindingly Obvious – "PATRIOT!? NEVER CAME TO ONE OF _MY_ SCHOOL PLAYS!!" And the entire congregation obligingly winces. A couple of the nearby stone angels seem to wince as well, and we feel their pain. Oh, the pain.

The Bat-Nosed-Angel sermonises on: "_We entrust our brother to God's mercy" _dammit, even we can't mock that, but we _can_, and will, mock the Nose-Bat-Angel, _"We commit his body to the grave_, and dancing on said grave will commence at three this afternoon. Refreshments will be provided."

Anyway, the Raging Unsubtlety is back, as the suited Men-in-Black's casually display their weapons – no, not those weapons, you disgusting, sick-minded individuals-

_Weapons?!_

Yes, Phyllis.

_As in their co-_

Yes. Phyllis.

_So – either that's a gun in their pocket, or they're VERY happy to see Al-_

Yes, Phyllis.

Alex's shocked reaction – overacted, but hands up who's surprised at this point? Really, his eyes are bulging, and if he had turned his head any faster, he would have done a 360. With any luck, he would have fallen in to the conveniently-placed grave – says it all. Evidently, his mind went to the sick, wrong place that yours just went.

And Phyllis's, I suppose.

They've led sheltered lives.

So, Jimmy Carr appears on screen in a cameo he almost undoubtedly deeply regrets, looking terminally bored; we are reliably informed by the subtitles that the word '_patriot_' echoes round the cemetery – yep, it's official, Subtlety is dead. Long Live the Morons – and Mrs. Jones (aka Sophie Okonedo, in a larger part she _should_ regret) adjusts a hair-style which is the epitome of Regret. Or, y'know, Hate-filled Hairdresser. I think they were going for 'tough and business-like'. Well, they managed tough – this film was made in 2005, and she probably still hasn't got the lacquer out.

A quick shot of Alex reveals that he has lost almost all of his neck, but gained exponentially in the paranoia stakes. Apparently, he's right to do so, since the CCTV camera in place to ward off grave desecration (there's probably a charm for that; and, really, how often do Sam and Dean Winchester visit Chelsea?!) turns to focus in on Alex. What, exactly, they're hoping for is a mystery, but then the MI6 of this film isn't exactly noted for their smarts.

I mean, seriously, if these people are in charge of our international security, I am moving to Burma.

Really, I hear Azerbaijan is nice this time of year, and Iraq is just _fantastic_ for the sun, dahling.

Oh, hell, Afghanistan will do, just get me out, get me out!!

Maybe the camera is just zooming in for a better shot of the Whining Pretty, who knows.

_Ooh, ooh, is he his catamite!?_

Phyllis, do you even know what a catamite is?

_Yes_.

Oh, astonish me, do.

_INSERT LONG AND DETAILED EXPLANATION_

Oh. Wow. Well, you learn a new thing every day, I suppose. Or, in your case, every year.

The coffin is lowered into the ground – drop it! DROP IT!! – and the Batshite Angel – sorry, the Angel-Nosed-Bat – opines _'To him be glory forever_ and tea for the rest of us."

Alex appears to have fallen asleep, though how we would know is somewhat dubious – he looks that braindead normally. Practically catatonic – definitely a case of 'lights on, no one home'.

Everyone begins leaving the cemetery – probably for the piss-up happening at the refectory, during which the priest is hoping to have his chance to diddle Alex, but will be vying for his attentions with most of the security guards and the refined attentions of Alan Blunt – who has plans to give him flowers and chocolates and take him to the talkies before making his slimy, powder-y, moustached move upon the poor, clueless, whining boy.

I hope whoever the lucky candidate is has a substantial duct-tape fortune, with which to suppress the Whine. For otherwise, unless necrophilia is your Thing, making sweet passionate love to a strangled corpse is not fun.

I know, I've done most things.

That said, making sweet passionate love to a duct-taped moron isn't exactly top of my Top Ten Most Fun 'Encounters' List, but the visual aids should just about do it.

The stone angels heave sighs of relief as the congregation leaves.

Poor Alicia Silverstone has had to sully herself again, clamping one arm around the Whining Pretty's shoulder – probably to prevent him from running back to his uncle's grave and flinging himself onto the coffin, shrieking "Why didn't you come to my school plays!?"

It seems to working.

Jimmy Carr speaks – doing a remarkable impression of a recently-released paedophile, and all I have to say is 'ew'.

So, he puts his legs a little further apart – People. Minds OUT of gutter, please! – makes with the tough-guy jazz-hands, and begins:

"_I'm too sexy for my forehead, too sexy for my forehead, I'm just too sexy_."

Like a bizarre, twisted version of real-life Russian Dolls, the Talkie-Monster – complete with grey hair, moustache, and the occasional twitch – appears from inside – no, behind, BEHIND (though, that could be just as bad…) him.

He also strikes up a rousing chorus: _"I'm too sexy for my Tourette's, too sexy for my Tourette's, I'm just too – FUCK! BOLLOCKS! WANK!!'_ He looks faintly embarrassed – to steal a line from our dear friend Amitai, with PERMISSION, all you would-be plagiarisers out there –

_Hisssssssssssssssssshhhhh!_

Exactly, Phyll. Couldn't have put it better myself. ANYway, to steal said line, he looks embarrassed much in the same way one does when one has hiccupped unexpectedly at the dinner-table – and moves aside for his pint-sized deputy head, the Dread Pirate Roberts.

Sorry. Mrs. Jones.

She assumes a tough-gal pose, adjusts her steel-hair, smoothes her suit and – makes with the jazz-hands once again. _"I'm too sexy for my helmet, too sexy for my helmet, I'm just too sexy_."

Well. Of course they didn't say that. They muttered some inane bollocks about 'terribly sorry for his death' and 'seatbelts' – have they ever tried the amazing preventative powers of the seat-belt to ward off Kalashnikovs? I think not – to which Alex responds with something equally inane, and, oh, all this is so boring I think I just wet myself for something to do.

S'cuse me, that was disgusting, I apologise. One second while I change my pants.

I'll leave you with Phyllis for a couple of minutes.

….

….

_So. Does anybody like…cheese…?_

…

…

_I had a really funny dream last night I was in the chapel and I was giving a talk about pink rabbits and how they're REAL and my own rabbit who isn't pink but white and fat and stupid and called Lord Hubert Featherstonehaugh XVII and the vet says I'm feeding him too much but that's ridiculous because he's a growing boy and he needs his food and he's only the size of a small suitcase and he can still fit into my hand luggage though he's a little overweight for the cabin and I can't do up the zip but he's still a growing rabbit and he needs his food because he needs to be __**BIGGER **__and anyway I was talking in chapel and then I suddenly realised that I wasn't wearing my school uniform not even the pinafore dress or the tights or the tie or the shirt or the shoes or the cufflinks or my regulation School-approved Headmistress-approved Housemistress-approved ribbons, or my regulation School-approved Headmistress-approved Housemistress-approved gym knickers or my regulation School-approved Headmistress-approved Housemistress-approved bra, or my regulation School-approved Headmistress-approved Housemistress-approved iron corset and anyway I was talking in chapel and I was giving a talk about pink rabbits and how they're REAL and-_

I'm BAAACK!! Did you miss me?

Oh, wait, I left you with Phyllis. Of course you did.

Anyone dead? Anyone gone to A&E with Phyllis-related injuries? How many people ruptured their own eardrums rather than continue listening to her inane drivel?

Fantastic! You're made of sterner stuff than I thought.

Though, looking at the peakiness of your dear, sweet, happy little faces, we could all do with some Phyllis-free time. I think we'll leave it here to give you some time to recover. Until next time, dearest readers, remember that whining boys like Alex get targeted by Talkie-Monster Paedophiles like Alan Blunt.

Till next time, my pretties, Goodbye! Goodbye! Goodbyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!

* * *


	5. Crouching Alex, Hidden Pedo

Darlings! We are so sorry to have left you for two, long years, but first there were exams, and in early 2009 we went to see the first of the Twilight films, and it fried Phyllis' last remaining brain cell. I've spent some time at finishing school trying to get her out of her vegetative state.

It's been a long road to recovery, but she's now just as she ever was.

So help us God.

Right. When we last left you, dearest of readers – no, Phyllis, that concoction would not taste nicer if you added marmalade! – Film!Alex and his fluffy pals were exchanging pleasantries in the appropriate 'Oh, why not?' approach that so many British film-makers go for.

"_I'll be in contact – very soon – Alex._" Mrs. Jones informs him, which sounds to me like a threat, but there is a worrying undertone of 'I hope you charge reasonable rates, and does your pimp work South Woodford?' which disturbs me. Is there _anyone_ in this film who doesn't like little children and fixate upon Alex "The Whine" Rider?

You understand, it's not so much the rampant paedophilia of this film which upsets me – I leave that to people with morals – it's their taste. Why? Why choose The Whine? The Side-Parted Whine of DOOM!

…MI6. We're trusting _these people_ with our nation's covert safety? Heaven help us all.

Though, more worrying still, having read the books (and at this point it's looking doubtful that _Anthony Horowitz_ has read the books, which screams 'ghost writer' to us), we know that we are trusting the Side-Parted Whine of Doom with our international covert safety. Frankly, I'm shocked that our nation still remains intact.

Alex displays his genius in one word. "_Why_?" he whines. How can that much moan be crammed into such a short sound? He truly is… special.

A prodigy.

Like Phyllis, only stupider.

Following on from her earlier paedophilic efforts, Mrs. Jones really cranks it up a notch. "_…after what's happened, there's the question of who's going to look after you_." For the first time since he stopped talking, Blunt looks interested. We can see, in those cold, grey, slightly vacant eyes, the thoughts ticking meticulously through that slimy little mind of his.

'I'll do it. I'll… 'take care' of the boy… there's a Whine that needs taming…'

At this point, a joke about 'fine whines' or 'good vintages' would be appropriate. Unfortunately, it's just too literal. Alex's whine _does_ need restraining.

Strangling, even.

Oh, the many varied deaths we could think of.

And Jack rejoins the fray – but manages to keep _most_ of the innuendo out of her voice. "_I'll look after him_." She says, firmly, and we would cheer for a little normality in this film, but we unfortunately know that the poor woman is subjecting herself to years of abject subjugation to The Whine, and we can't bring ourselves to feel any joy about that.

Indeed, we feel like sending her a gift of many, many kitchen skewers, so she can put them through her eardrums when it all becomes too much.

Or through Alex's eyes. We're easy.

Oh, but they're not done yet. Oh no. "_We're just trying to help_, and it's so nice to see a young boy trying to better himself. MI6 can be a very generous employer."

Of course, they don't say that. It's implied. With a _wealth_ of meanings besides. And really, short of portraying it through the medium of dance, there is no way they could make their 'come-to-me' body language any clearer.

Jack recognises this, and her mouth works in a mixture of horror and disgust, and – if we are any judges of character, which Phyllis isn't, but I am after my long and varied career – slight temptation at the thought of escaping her future of Whine and kitchen skewers. Alex, however, remains vacant.

We sense a theme.

He's almost – _pigeon_-like in his utter vacuity.

You know. _'Coo, coo, feed me breadcrumbs, coo, coo, shit on a statue, coo, coo, aim for that person, coo, coo, do I have fleas, coo, coo…'_

We get a wonderful shot of Jimmy Carr, who has either set himself up as Alex Pettyfer's competition in the Idiocy Stakes and is looking impressively blank, or the enormity of his stupidity in taking this role has finally hit him and he is frozen in utter horror.

We would like to believe the latter, but the former is probably more likely. A raven – or some such bird, possibly one of Alex's friends among the pigeons, or… no! No, a _ostrich_ of some kind, micced up and made to caw – makes its presence known in the background, but no one bats an eyelid. Apparently, this is normal.

It's not, of course, and the foreshadowing is enough to make my teeth ache. But no matter. We've stopped expecting anything decent from this film, and we're only eleven minutes and fifty-one seconds in.

Efficient, aren't they? None of this 'try and keep them interested' bollocks. None of your average 'make it look good to start with' nonsense. No, they plunged straight in with the 'crap beyond all belief', and kept it up admirably for the entire film.

It's like Nanny. "I don't care if you don't like it. You're going to sit there and watch it and _you'll enjoy yourself_. Do I make myself _clear_?"

Aah, Nanny. How I miss her. But Wormwood Scrubs suits her so much better…

People are still walking past in the background, which amazes us, since there were a grand total of three and a half people at the funeral – Alex doesn't make a full person, and is therefore only counted as half. You have to have a _brain_ to make up a real person, and he is severely lacking in the brain stakes.

Moving on.

Blunt weighs in once more with a little heavy-handed hinting. 'Heavy-handed' as in 'half-an-inch more and we'd be into the "heavy petting"'. "_I'm sure we'll meet again, Alex_," Or who else will I take to the Talkies with flowers and a Milk Tray? All teenagers like chocolates… no? _"hopefully somewhere a little less… gloomy_."

Poor Alan is fooling himself. He sees a romantic evening in his flat, with chocolates and Pinot Grigio and music, sweet music, playing on his gramophone player in the background. But anywhere with him will seem gloomy; he practically radiates it. He could gloom for England. He is The Gloom. Gloom Idol. He has the Gloom-Factor.

If they ever manage to convert Gloom into electricity, Alan Blunt will win popularity contests all over the world. The only person who might beat him in the Gloom Stakes is Gordon Brown, and he would – one hopes – be too busy to enter into any piffling popularity competitions when he's trying to save a major country from economic _disaster_.

One can but hope.

_(Ed: Too late.)_

"My uncle always wore a seatbelt, Mr. Blunt." Alex spits, and a little drool dribbles out the corner of his mouth. Oh, great. Not just morons – _drooling_ morons. That takes 'method acting' to new, horrific and previously unthought of levels. "He was a very careful man," he mumbles, presumably dazzled by the sheer force of Blunt's-

-_Gloom!_

No, Phyll.

_Raspberry fool_?

No, Phyll.

_Raspberry?_

No, Phyllis! _Personality_, you giant, be-pinafored moron! Dazzled by the sheer force of Blunt's _personality_. That, or this is an Twilight-style situation, and Blunt is literally planning to dazzle Alex with his shiny glowy skin. Frankly, the thought of Blunt as Edward Cullen is a thought so horrible that even my mind boggles from it.

Then again, what Blunt is forgetting, is that, if he is the Edward to Alex's Bella – and Alex has that 'blank, uninterested' look _down_ – he has a long, long wait before he sees anything even approaching action. All Edward and Bella ever get, after three _interminably_ long books, is an epic fade to black.

Fail, Stephanie Meyer. Epic, epic fail.

Anyway.

"_Not. Careful. Enough_." Blunt opines, striking a 'FAME'-esque pose, and continuing through the medium of song, "I'm gonna live fore-e-ever! I'm gonna learn how to fly!"

"High!" Choruses Mrs. Jones attempting to hustle him back into the car. Jimmy Carr, behind Alex Pettyfer, is still frozen in horror. The priest, looking a little anxious, snaps his fingers in front of his face, to no discernable reaction.

"Guys!" he shouts as Blunt is being poked forcibly by Mrs. Jones. "We've got another one!"

Mrs. Jones makes the super special MI6 Blunt-Signal, and Blunt, still posing, is surreptitiously winched off, to be deposited in his office, to rest in his coffin for another long day.

As Alex and Jack leave the cemetery, in the background we can see Jimmy Carr being hoisted into a coffin and carried away.

"_Did you mean what you said about looking after me_?" Alex whines quietly to Jack as they walk through the gates of the park (which was a cemetery a minute ago, but let's not quibble) and towards their humble, Chelsea, several-million-pound house.

"Sadly yes. Believe me, I'm as cut up about it as you are. Maybe we can come to some arrangement?" Jack says and Alex looks lambently down at her.

OK, fine, fine. What she actually says, showing, I feel, a touching display of sensitivity to a boy who has just lost his only living relative, "_Of course I did, idiot_. It's because of you that I get child benefit. And if I lose that, I'll have to start working again." She rounds off this touching speech with a cheery, _"Besides! Who else is there_? No one else would put up with your whine!"

"_I mean, will you be allowed to? We're not even related_?"

"Just as well! If we were, what we've been doing for the past few years would just be creepy, as opposed to minorly illegal! Look on the bright side!"

Jack, however, has had the sense not to sully herself thusly. "_I've been living with you for __nine years__, _and I don't suffer that kind of pain lightly. Now that Ian's dead, maybe I can find out where he put my passport... _How much more related do you wanna be_? Because, trust me, I'm just fine with this level of relatedness!" She moves swiftly on. "_Is it just me, or were those bankers weird_?"

It's just her. Alex has no basis of comparison, and frankly, compared to Ian, The Cemetery Posse were paragons of Normality.

Alex, as usual, ignores her completely. "_JACK_!" he bellows, clamping a clammy hand down on her arm. He has seen a totally abnormal sight – a white van being driven be a odour-ridden lackey with a beer belly. Darling, you just don't get that sort in Chelsea, do you, Phyll?

_You know, Doll... I've been wondering..._

Oh god. Yes?

_Is Chelsea... __**really**__ by the sea?_

Hey, Phyll! Look! Something shiny! There we go. I keep tinfoil in my pocket for just these occasions.

Back to the film.

Alex looks horrified by this sight. He hasn't seen anything this common since Ian took him to see _Oliver!_ when he was a child. (This was before Alex's accident in Year 2 after which all drama-related outings were vetoed. Along with the zoo, the park, restaurants... Alex was only house-trained comparatively late in life.)

Despite the fact that the van is facing them, the doors are shut, you can't see which of the row of houses it was visiting, and the walls are undeniably solid, Jack is sure that something is afoot. "_That's Ian's stuff!_" She knew she signed on for Neighbourhood Watch for a reason. This will be on Crimewatch if it's the last thing she does. She's looking forward to the reconstruction already.

Most of them look terminally unbothered. The driver, faced with a crazy lady, is understandably alarmed. "Back! Back, you devil!" This is the last time he takes a job in this neighbourhood. He's already been whacked by no less than three Burberry-wielding old ladies, two for 'cluttering up the place' and one for not coming in by the tradesmen's entrance.

Alex, meanwhile, has somehow managed, in the past two seconds, to sneak behind the white van, and rather than doing the sensible thing and politely and sanely asking what they're doing (or, at a pinch, climbing in), no, he grabs his bike – somehow – and pedals furiously after them, still in the wrong gear. Steam is rising from his heels as he pedals madly along in second gear. Any minute now, he's going to take to the sky.

What follows is a long and boring montage of the things Alex somehow manages to avoid (read: which sadly don't manage to squish him), despite showing his breath-taking intellect by being constantly on the wrong side of the road and peddling into oncoming traffic. (What the film doesn't show is Alex gate-crashing a removal job by following the wrong white van and getting punched by another Burberry-wielding octogenarian for 'loitering without intent'.)

What they also don't show is the number of horrific pile-ups caused by Alex's sheer idiocy. To this day, there is a special Memorial Weekend held for the many victims. MI6 has a fun couple of weeks of cover-up coming up – but it's OK. Alan Blunt will do anything for his Twoo Wuv.

Anyway, all embellishments aside, after an impromptu trip through a car wash (where they use power hoses which presumably help to get rid of some of the lacquer in his hair), Alex arrives at the somehow 'ominous' environs of Jeff Slater Auto-Something-Or-Other. This is clearly intended to look 'seedy' – but really just looks like the rest of London which isn't, you know, Chelsea or Knightsbridge.

Once there, Alex drops to a crouch – hang on. Phyllis has gone silent.

Phyllis?

_...yes?_

Why the shifty tone in your voice? You're not in Mummy's room again are you?

..._no_?

Oh God. Out! Out, or I'll have you spayed!

One moment please. I have to douse Phyllis with cold water again.

...

Back again, darlings! With Phyllis this time. You see, darling? Isn't it so much nicer when we spend time together?

_Mpphmmmphmm!_

Yes, I like it when you're silent too.

Right!

Alex prowls forward, dropping to the aforementioned crouch, though the reason for the prowling and the crouching are unknown... for one thing, he's _still holding_ his bike. Alex, dearheart, the time for subtlety is passed! Passed! Just walk like a normal person, you freak!

Alex prowls forward, giving the totally normal surroundings of the repair yard suspicious looks. All those tires! What could a repair yard possibly need with _tires_? It must be a front! Highly suspicious. Alex makes a note of it in his super special Harriet the Spy Notebook. He started it when he was four and was still writing things like 'AM SPY. AM NEEDING SUPPLIES. WILL GET JACK TO MAKE HAM SANDWICHES. THEN WILL GO UP TREE IN GARDEN AND SPY ON NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOURS MAKING OWN HAM SANDWICHES. THEY HAVE FOILED MY PLAN. THEY MUST BE EVIL."

...

Actually, that was last week.

Onwards! The foreshadowing of the symbolically crushed car... making us hope (falsely, curse you all!) that Alex's bones will be crushed in this scrap yard. Sadly, the only thing to be crushed will be our hopes.

Now, dearest of readers, for the first time ever in this dubious story, we are going to skip a bit. Because we're _bored_. Even Phyllis is starting to get a slight-more-vacant-than-normal look.

In the middle of the scrap yard and looking in no way conspicuous, sits Ian Rider's car. With its oh-so-subtle 'RI D3R' numberplate. (Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK.)

Alex edges towards it. He couldn't have looked less subtle if he had done commando crawl across the fucking yard.

An expression something like confusion or upset should be on his face, but we all know, don't we, readers, that Alex Pettyfer doesn't _do_ emotions apart from 'smug' and 'smugger' and the default 'vacant', so what we actually get is a very smug, rather stupid cardboard box.

He edges nearer. We are half expecting him to produce a bunch of rhododendron branches, reprise his role as Tree Number Four and announce to everyone in the nearby vicinity that 'they can't see him'.

We wish we couldn't see him either, so we're rather tired of his little face, so we're going to leave you know with the thought that somewhere, deep in the London sewers, Alan Blunt is scampering with the rest of his kind and gnawing on his latest victim.

Sleep well!


	6. Harry's Cirque du Freak

Lights of our lives! We're back – and better than ever before. And by better, we mean drunk.

Well, _I'm_ drunk. Phyllis has had her evening glass of milk and is pretending to be drunk. At least, I think she's pretending to be drunk. I do try to indulge her, but since she normally acts like a trollied toddler, it's difficult to tell.

When we last left you – I'd say an unforgivably long time ago, but then again, judge me at your peril – Alex was crawling on his hands and knees through a London scrap-yard. Not quite _crawling_, I suppose... but one gets the impression that Alex is happiest on his knees.

...too soon?

Whatever.

So! On his knees, in a scrap-yard, _still _holding that goddamn bike (one would have thought that it would hinder his night-time endeavours somewhat, but clearly he's a resourceful lad) Alex inches his way around tyres, crumpled cars and Franz Ferdinand's _I Predict a Riot._

A car is crushed into smithereens – we choke a little on the symbolism, although Phyllis does think it's biscuits – and we risk a hopeful look at Alex and his bike. But the bike is gone! Suddenly and without warning, Alex covers it with tarpaulin and abandons it. Is that any way to treat your only friend?

With absolutely no subtlety whatsoever, Alex scuttles across the yard, ignoring the two yelling, over-Cockneyed be-overalled louts who sound frankly like Dick van Dyke in Mary Poppins ("Meeeery Pahpp'ns!" And to you too, sir) and approaches a weirdly pristine and very familiar car.

The offensive RI D3R numberplate is unfortunately intact. Like the rest of the car, which it shouldn't be. We're not automobile experts – though I have been in a lot of back-seats – but even we know that if a man is _shot_ while driving a car then _it will crash_, given that the driver is probably dead or in no condition to obey the Highway Code. The car would be a write-off. This shit would not be covered by Direct Line. And Alex would certainly not be so eager to clamber into the front seat, liberally spattered with his uncle's blood and brains, where said uncle spent his last moments.

Which begs the question – why _does_ he climb into the front seat anyway?! To hide, sure – but there are _plenty_ of convenient hiding places in this yard, and take it from one who knows, hiding in the front seat of a car is a _nightmare_ – it is _so_ difficult to get on your knees in the driving seat. The pedals tangle in your pantyhose, and then where are you? It's frankly undignified.

But I digress.

Alex, obeying all the best rules in his Super Spy Handbook, sprints between the cars and lurks suspiciously behind a rather nice Renault Clio (I joke. There is _no such thing_ as a nice Renault Clio). Then he makes a dash! Lurching towards his uncle's car, which is – le gasp! – riddled with bullet holes. And then, clearly attempting to model himself on someone sane, he pokes them.

No, I don't know why he would do that. Perhaps he thinks the car will dispense something. The look on his face is of blank confusion, but then, that's no different to his normal face, so no clues there.

As Alex pokes hopefully at his uncle's car – maybe Ian hid the Will here! – the lackeys emerge and bellow at each other, in order that Alex might hear and, as per his usual actions, do the stupidest thing possible based on the information at hand.

"THE RIDER CAR SHOULDA BEEN DAHN TWO DEYS AGAH, HARRY!"

"Mumble mumble PAPERWORK," Harry opines, in weak defence.

"JUST DO I', HARRY!" His attractively beer-bellied partner swiftly steam-rollers that argument.

That's right, Harry. Just do it. For this is the will of Nike.

"I'm going to Liverpool Street," Harry's companion – we'll call him Greg - informs us, a propos of absolutely nothing.

"What, the station?"

"Yes, you berk." Greg says kindly.

Not that Greg the Bastion of Fairness will ever admit it, but Harry has a point. Liverpool Street is quite long. It has other things besides a station. I know for a fact that there is a very good Marks & Spencer's. But these are mere trifles. (We needn't even mention the word 'berk', which surely hasn't been used since the 1950s, and was quaintly nostalgic then. What should be noticed, however, is Greg and Harry's utter inability to act.)

Bless them, they try.

"I've got to take over the stuff," Greg tells Harry, which makes him sound a lot like Mrs. Jones' dealer. (In other news, if you've ever seen the Z-Movie 'The Stuff', this whole film takes on an entirely new meaning, and actually makes much more sense.)

Harry continues to bluster away, as Greg strides manfully off. Harry, left in full command of the scrapyard, made dizzy by the power, yells something unintelligible.

Inexplicably, a dog comes running out of nowhere and makes a beeline for Alex. Why is this? Does Harry have some sort of dog-whispering fu he's been hiding all these years from Greg. His dearest ambition is to work in a circus, but his fear of Greg – and his domineering family - keeps him bound to the scrap-yard.

Though, I could be mixing that up with Great Expectations.

Wait – wait, one moment.

_What?_

Hallo Phyllis. I'd been trying not to see you there. Shut up, do.

Greg, our sweetest chum, walks around the car when he is done mentally beating down his dearest love, Harry of Nike fame. So _why doesn't he see Alex_?

There is only one explanation. Alex has an invisibility cloak.

The Deathly Hallows ride again!

Anyway, no matter. The fact remains that Alex remains immortal, invisible, God only wise, in light inaccessible hid from Greg's eyes.

Greg the overbearing boyfriend stalks off, leaving Harry to deal with the Rider Car and its offensive number plate. Meanwhile the dog – we'll call her Lassie – bounds up to Alex, who lets up a feminine shriek and clambers into the car, petticoats a-quiver. Lassie, a little hurt but nothing daunted, eagerly tries to make friends, as Alex cowers back, eyes wide, pulse racing.

We can't help but wonder whether Mr. Pettyfer wasn't told about the dog, because this is the most genuine acting we get from him all film. Blank terror. This seems fitting.

Lest we forget, the window is plenty big enough for Lassie to get through. Lassie is clearly the only character in this film who understands boundaries.

Once again the symbolic VLOOOM, CRASH, as another car bites the dust. This one with the number plate L373 RWK, which stands for "My owner wasn't a dickwad".

Harry murmurs sweet nothings to Lassie – now rechristened – in her native tongue. "TYSON!" Re-christened and re-gendered, he bounds away, and Alex tries to look ridiculously relieve. As per usual he manages 'impassive', with a side-order of vacant.

Until, that is, the magnet hits the roof of the car, when his expression changes to pants-wettingly funny. At least, that's what _we_ felt. He could have been aiming for pants-wettingly something else, but it's so difficult to tell – his face so rarely changes.

The car is borne up into the air, and Alex, forgetting those new-fangled things called door handles, flails weakly at the door with his elbows.

The elbow tactic having failed dismally, Alex makes the logical choice and tries again with his feet. One can't help but feel that opposable thumbs are _wasted_ on this boy.

_Look! Look, I can do it!_

Yes, Phyll, very nice. Do you want to go back in the box?

_...Please don't put me back there_.

Then shut up.

As a side note, might we point out that there is _no way_ Alex should have got out of that car anything other than a tad squishy? Not at the rate those pliers were squashing it down. The only way he should have got out of that car, should have been by being scraped off the seats like strawberry jam.

Blunt could have eaten it on toast.

...too far?

In any case, we are spared this little foray into logic by the oh-so-convenient ejector seat. (I need to get me one of those. For those difficult encounters. And Phyllis.) This manifests itself just as the pliers draw back.

Question. _Why_ do the pliers draw back? Why _would _they? It makes no sense! And it would have been so much funnier and more satisfying had Alex tried to eject – forgive me a cruel chuckle – and only hit roof of the car.

I have to turn off my logic for this film. It will only hurt me if I don't.

The screen – _what, why is there screen, why!?_ – blares in mild hysteria EMERGENCY, EMERGENCY! This is apparently the escape menu – though if there were an emergency, one can only assume that hitting the small touch-screen button would be quite difficult, and you would die.

Something of a flaw in this plan, one feels.

And why is 'telephone' on the menu? Ian Rider had a personalised number plate, I'm sure he had a mobile phone and he could probably stretch to a hands-free kit.

I hear blue tooth is cheap.

I despair.

Anyway, Alex ejects himself from the car with truly impeccable timing, managing not to smack his head into the sunroof as he goes.

The man operating the crane, rather than take a few minutes to himself to contemplate his near-miss with a manslaughter charge, instead takes a few minutes to get his mouth around 'oy'.

Why, out of interest, are they chasing him? Are they actually planning to kill him? I may be wrong, but I don't feel this adolescent boy poses a massively menacing threat to their security, and it seems like an overreaction to murder someone for wandering round your scrap yard looking like a tit. While I believe that certain parts of that sentence should be punishable by law, and while I understand that it is extremely tempting, I still fail to see the necessity.

Another side point: why, on being seen, does Alex not stop, smile ingratiatingly (possibly cry), and say, "Oh, I'm sorry, I was just wandering round your scrap yard looking like a tit," instead of running in a way which manages, impressively, to scream both "GUILTY!" and "EFFEMINATE!" at the same time.

For some unknown reason, other people appear (possibly from under cars), and join in the hue and cry (this scrap yard seems to have an infestation). Taken all together, the whole scene looks like a rather poor addition to _West Side Story_ – the Director's Cut, maybe?

Instead of smiling and explaining like a normal person, when approached by these unknown gentleman, Alex decides to make a run. Well, he tries – he makes a flail for it. At one memorable moment, he makes an interpretive dance for it. You can see his mental monologue – "pirouette! Pirouette! Pas de bourrees!"

It is lucky for Alex, then, as he twirls inelegantly over the cars, that all of his gentlemen callers are somewhat inept. They grab at him from the ground, forgetting that Alex is three cars up, and cannot be reached by human hands. Occasionally, for the sake of variety, shouts of "get him!" are heard – whoever directed this film is a master of tortology.

Alex, proving once again that his brain is unequal to the challenge of everyday life, goes a little nuts, relinquishes the high ground for no decently explained reason, and flings himself off the car in some sort of spider-leap, landing on the ground in an attractive squat. His glutes will be nicely toned.

Phyllis and I have no doubt – Phyllis has no thoughts, of course she has no doubts – that this move is terribly impressive when executed by a true master of martial arts. By Alex, however, no.

Well, that was – um. Alex, in a moment of truly astonishing social dexterity, shoves his crotch in a man's face by means of jumping on his shoulders. This is presumably a move he perfected with Ian: "Carry me, uncle, carry me!"

"Alex, you're fourteen, get down."

Either way, for a child of fourteen, he's very advanced.

We would like to tell you, dearest of readers, that one of the funniest parts of this scene of pausing at any given moment and trying to work out what the _fuck_ is going on. It's difficult. For example, the screencap before us at present is of a man in overalls on all fours, with Alex behind him, apparently mid-spank, while a third rather heavyset man cheers them on – with a rope.

I leave the explanation to your own imaginations.

Alex yanks his BDSM partner up by the seat of his trousers and throws him to the third member of the party. They fall to the ground, locked in a truly passionate embrace. Alex makes an astonishing face and then hurls a rope at them. Well, that's just rude.

They are surrounded by yet more oiled-smeared punters, and Alex proceeds to take them all out. With the _rope_, you filthy-minded guttersnipes, with the _rope_. No-one else is treated to Alex's patented crotch manoeuvre. For the first second or two, the rope-thing looks quite impressive. Then it devolves into mere flailing, as Alex pulls a face I like to call the Senakot. And for some reason, all these oil-smeared lackeys find this altogether too terrifying and flee like lambs. One would have thought that one good rugby tackle would have dealt with this whole undignified incident, but no.

This is frankly embarrassing.

Even Phyllis fights with more aplomb than this.

I should know. It was compulsory at our school.

Anyway.

More maypole tomfoolery follows. This is unutterably dull. The monotony is broken only by Alex . Pettyfer's pitiful war-cry ("RAR.") Phyllis! I want to check that your medicine is working. What do you think of this?

_Rar?_

Genuinely more terrifying, well done. Shut up now, there's a good girl.

Oh, and suddenly someone has a gun. I wish this made this scene more interesting.

"OW DID 'E GET IN 'ERE?!" Ah. Dick van Dyke is back, I see. Though in the wrong part of London.

Skip, skip, bored now, hop skip jump – THE BIKE IS BACK! Alex is on it and through the gates that I could swear weren't automated before.

Thank God this tedious drivel is over. We have the rest of the film to go, but I'm willing to take small bites.

And Jeff Slater loves 'used', eh? Good to know. Alex idoes/i come with a lot of wear and tear.

* * *

Until later, beloveds! I have to get to work.

Dorothea. (And Phyllis.)


	7. Something In The Way You Move

Dearly beloveds, we are gathered here today to – wish the end of this thrice bedamned heatwave. We write from our sweltering Belgravia mansion (it is thirty five degrees in here, partly because Phyllis set fire to the table cloth, partly due to the heatwave, and partly because this house has walls that would withstand most siege engines). In any case, this is far too hot for a British summer, and I will be complaining to the appropriate authorities.

Just as soon as I finish my glass of wine. Well, maybe the bottle.

Maybe the case.

Why limit yourself?

So, darlings, as a distraction from what I can only call this infraction of all known universal laws (no rain! For three weeks! My father will hear about this! ...Oh wait, he's dead), we are here to share a misery of a different kind – the next instalment of yet another crime against humanity: this film. And our commentary.

We are martyrs to your entertainment.

When last we left you, Alex had instigated an orgy – oh, sorry, I mean a fight – at Jeff Slater's Boudoir of Earthly Delights. Ah, no, wrong again! Scrapyard.

This wine is quite strong. Then again, it might be Phyllis slipping things into my drink again. She doesn't mean to – she's not intelligent enough for homicide – but she still thinks perfume is an acceptable beverage. It's better than the anti-freeze, I suppose.

Mmm, freezing.

Sorry. Apologies for any – ah – detours.

Now, where were we? Jeff Slater's boudoir.

Having fled the attentions of those carnal beasts, we next rejoin Alex at Liverpool Street Station! It was one of my old haunts, back in the day. I'm not supposed to go there now – pesky solicitation caution. You know, it really doesn't look that much better on screen. Someone had better tell that woman in the checked skirt that the eighties have been and gone, and they don't want that skirt back.

So.

The highlights and the Nose appear, more casually attired this time, along with poor, beleaguered Alicia Silverstone.

"Are you sure they came here?" she asks, desperate for an excuse to leave. "They could have gone anywhere." Maybe I should go and check outside. On Oxford Street. Or... Edinburgh. You stay here.

"Jack, you mustn't go alone!"

"I won't be alone, sweetie! My relief and my passport are coming with me! Can't believe that Ian didn't think I'd check behind the sofa cushions."

Alex looks away, all chiselled jaw and vacancy, just as a pair of creepy, mascara'd eyes take to the screen above the Departures board, followed by _at your school soon!_ Who _are_ these people?

"They didn't say they were coming to take a train. They said they were bringing stuff here," Alex totally disregards the main function of a station. That is, if he knows the main function of a station.

We'll leave that one to you.

Meanwhile, Alex has spotted something. Something sinister. Something that should not be there. A man. In a station. Looking at the departures board.

Oh, the _frisson_ of suspense.

True, he is wearing an overcoat more usually favoured by perverts and paedophiles, but were that an indictable offence, David Cameron would never have become Prime Minister.

"Jack!" he says, once more latching a clammy tentacle onto Alicia Silverstone. She can't wince, so we do it for her. "look! Over there!" Pointing seems to require a remarkable amount of concentration on his part. (Then again... most things do.)

"It's that guy from the funeral!" Alicia Silverstone tells Alex. "And everyone knows, no one goes to the station after they've been to a funeral! Just look at us! We're not in a sta- oh."

Perhaps Alex needs reminding of all his former conquests. There have been so many.

Why, precisely, is seeing this man proof that something fishy is going on? Are all frequenters of Liverpool Street Station members of the British Secret Service? Though in fact that wouldn't surprise me at all. They're all dull enough, that's for sure.

I'd know. I've – ah – met most of them. In a manner of speaking. The ones in those coats, anyway.

The next thing we, and Alicia Silverstone, know, Alex has disappeared and a ray of hope enters all of our lives. Most notably that of Jack, who stares around herself with what can only be described as slowly dawning glee. "Alex?" _At long last! I've lost him! It's only taken me five years!_

Then, tragically, she catches sight of a figure, bounding gracefully, nay, effeminately through the crowds of Liverpool Street Station.

But, lo! What is this!? Where are the crowds? Lest we forget, Alex has, so far today, attended a funeral, caused a pile-up on Albert Bridge, participated in a particularly violent orgy, gone home, got changed, and got to Liverpool Street Station from Chelsea. It's got to be at least three. Not rush-hour, I grant you, but in one of London's foremost commuter stations, that doesn't really matter. After all, someone, somewhere, must want to go to Ipswich.

Probably.

Anyway, where are the swarming hoards? Liverpool Street Station is no Waterloo, I grant you, but walk through Waterloo at any given point in any day, and you are punching tourists out of the way. By the time you get to the Tube, you're panting like Mike Tyson on fight night. There is _no way_ that Alex can run between two pillars in Liverpool Street Station without at least two 'excuse me!'s and at least one, "FOR THE LOVE OF FUCK MOVE!"

And then someone would have asked him to take their photo.

And frankly, I'd be enjoying myself a lot more if they had. Or if Alex had got to the stairs, tangled tragically with a group of tourists and slid headfirst down the stairs on a camera bag.

Don't tell me you wouldn't have enjoyed that.

_I wouldn't have enjoyed that!_

Shut up, Phyllis, or I'll do it to you.

Two issues arise in quick succession during Alex's promenade through the station. One: why are all these people surprised by someone running in a station? To be honest, watching someone else run in a station is one of life's most sublime little pleasures – particularly when safe in the knowledge that one has no train to catch.

Secondly, why does Alex vault over the stair-rail instead of walking down it like a normal human being? The stairs were empty! There were no obstacles!

...oh, I've got it. Changing direction is _awfully_ hard when so much of your brain power is spent working out where your next hairspray fix will come from.

Can we just take a moment to appreciate what anyone with half a brain would have realised: that Jimmy Carr _wants _to be followed? Granted, men wearing those overcoats do normally want to be followed by children, but he clearly looks shifty. In fact, he couldn't be more obvious in wanting Alex to follow him if he dressed as the Pied Piper of Hamlin and carried a whistle.

Now _there's _an image to warm the cockles of your heart.

Don't even get me started on the cameras.

Can we please discuss why, in the name of sanity, you would put the entrance to your Super Secret Spy Organisation in a _photo booth_? In the books, it was a _bank_! That made _sense_! Y'know, a limited sort of sense, but still sense! Like, twice a week, you must get someone who just wanted a replacement passport photo and the occasional bemused group of tourists who just wanted to take kooky hipster photos of themselves (and who among us hasn't, may I ask? Well. Mine run to a niche audience, but still. The sentiment is the same) and have to be fobbed off with a goody-bag and a 'Welcome to London!' hat.

It's a STUPID IDEA. Ohhh, my head. I can't tell whether it's this film or the Givenchy in my Chateau D'Yquem.

We get the impression that Alex hasn't come across photo booths before. Then again, it doesn't seem as though Alex has encountered much before at all; that look of blank confusion covers so much. In any case, ignoring all known laws of British interaction and, y'know, propriety (and sanity), Alex continues to approach the photo booth after Jimmy Carr has entered it and firmly shut the curtain.

I don't know about you, but when _I_ see someone go into a photo booth alone, _I_ don't think 'well, this looks like an invitation for company!' (though, in that coat... never mind.) I also don't wonder, as Alex apparently does, what they're doing in there and whether they might be somehow connected to the strange happenings occurring in my life. And let's not forget, these strange happenings are limited to a man with a gun at a funeral (a bit strange, perhaps) and a removal van (_not strange at all_). I don't count the orgy – fight at Jeff Slater's scrap-yard, because I feel this must happen to Alex often. I myself would very much like to punch him in the face.

Alex, once again, disregards the main function of an object, produces his Harriet the Spy notebook and scribbles furiously: "MAN IN PHOTOBOOTH? DOING WHAT? MUST INVE- INVIST -– FIND OUT."

Loath though we are to admit it, Alex is right! Things are amiss in the photo booth world! For Jimmy Carr – in what has to be the fastest gender-reassignment-surgery known to man – has transformed himself, accompanied by only a few ominously bright flashes (of light; OF LIGHT, you perverts. You're as bad as him) into a woman.

Judging by his look of utter horror, Alex has never seen a Female Lady (Jack doesn't count). Just as well; he probably wouldn't know what to do with one.

Personally, I applaud MI6's initiative – dare I say class – at making their employees pay to get into their place of work. It's like saying 'thank you' after being mugged. Alex bears out our theory, at least, that he fundamentally does not know what a photo booth is. He seems to think it might dispense something. Again, like the car. (_Sidenote: that is fucking cheap for a photo booth; I got stiffed £5 for the last one I used. I made my money back, of course, but really. And in times of recession, too.)_

And here I must pause in order to fully appreciate Alex's facial expressions when confronted with the true function of a photo booth. He looks like a gorilla would if punched in the face: unhurt but cheesed off. Next, he reels back like a startled owl, genuinely surprised that the thing has done it again. Then he lurches sideways – oh, and so do I. Givenchy Trois has a kick! Though I'm horribly afraid that Phyll may have cut it with Lynx. Oh, the humanity.

But I digress. Alex lurches sideways, into a tunnel.

I'll let that sink in.

Yanked involuntarily into a tunnel, Alex's stool has turned into a tiny train. Well. Anthony Horowitz did say this film was every boy's dream. Could we... pause, momentarily, so I can get something off my chest?

No. Not that. Not unless you pay.

Did no one think during the conception of this scene, what that tunnel would look like at rush hour? Row upon row of silent people on stools, being inexorably purveyed into their place of work. Silent people in silent suits. Serried ranks of grey. Interspersed with the occasional bemused tourist. "Excuse me? Excuse me? I think I'm lost. I must have taken a wrong turn... in the photo booth..."

Of course, the suits say nothing. One does not talk on British public transport.

_Welcome to the ride. Please remain seated and await proper procedure._

Alex's face says 'this is the shittest version of the Ministry of Magic I've ever seen'. Frankly, we agree.

Also, what is the proper procedure for being dragged through the bowels Liverpool Street Station without your consent?

Alex unseats himself when he arrives in what looks like a lift – as he exits, a man bids him good morning. Yes, a teenager has turned up in MI6 looking confused, and clearly out of place. But that is no reason to ignore protocol.

Mrs. Jones appears and flirts as only she knows how. "Shouldn't you be at school?" I have never heard that much sexual innuendo packed into so few words – and I'm _me_.

She turns and leaves, and Alex follows her, staring vacantly around. "I was in Liverpool Street Station," he says, apparently deciding to play to his strengths and state the bleeding obvious at every available opportunity. "And now I'm here."

I can't tell whether he's modelling himself on Sartre or Kafka, but that was beautiful in its existential brilliance.

Tit.

"That's right," agrees Mrs. Jones. And the prize for the most pointless dialogue goes to...

_Doll_?

What?

_They're talking like me!_

Yes, Phyll. That's not a good thing.

_Doll_?

What?!

_Can we get ice cream_?

Yes, of course! Go into the kitchen, and it's in the cupboard. The one with the lock. The nice men in the coats will help you.

_Really_?

I promise. Shoo.

Jack, left high and dry, does the sensible thing, and emigrates.

Well, no. But she doesn't do what Alex does, and that's definitely the sensible thing.

"So what is this place?" Alex asks, lowering the IQ of the entire building. "Hogwarts?"

...Right.

Phyll?

_Yes_?

Punch me.

_Really!?_

No. Eat your ice cream.

_I don't have any ice cream._

Didn't the nice men help you?

_No. They did a pointy thing and went._

Yes, didn't they. It'll be sleepy times for you soon!

_Nap! Nap nap nap nap nap!_

Any second now.

_Nap nap nap nap nap nap!_

It had better be, or I'm going to punch her out myself.

_Nap nap nap naaap naaaaa-_

Ah, yes, there we go. I've heard the thud.

Sweet, sweet freedom.

And yet I am still in bondage to this fucking film.

Ah, well. On with the torture.

"As you've probably guessed, Alex, your uncle didn't work for a bank. He worked for us. The Royal and General doesn't exist."

"Your secrets have secrets," Alex says. "You have a secret headquarter."

Mrs. Jones smiles. "Yes."

"Your people wear pervert coats and say good morning to me. You never eat or drink anything; you don't go into sunlight."

The smile becomes a tad strained. "Still true."

"I know what you are."

Hope lights up her face. "Say it... out loud. Say it."

"You're – you're..."

"Say it!"

"..._LIDL."_

The hope dies.

To be frank, the entire set of MI6 looks like it came out of a Spies-for-Dummies flat pack. Alex probably had one of them when he was a kid. MI6 probably stole the blueprints from him. What about planning secret things? You know, like you have to do when you're a secret organization of spy-liness? That entire place is open plan! And apparently all they do is study maps of the world. It's like Typography Enthusiasts Unite in there.

Jesus.

"Mr. Blunt has a – proposition to put to you," Mrs. Jones cooes. "We want you to think of us as – a temp agency, Alex. You know the sort. Red-velvet rooms... beds... rohypnol... On a temporary basis, you understand. By the hour temporary."

They enter the Inner Sanctum and Blunt appears, apparently staring at the wall, because this is underground and there are no windows. Whatever he's doing, he's doing it far too close to the screen for my comfort – it's like he can see into my soul.

Oh, Bill Nighy. What did they do to you!?

The camera angle changes, and it transpires that Blunt was staring fixedly at a giant wall-sized artist's representation of London. (We know it's an artist's representation because the sky is blue. We're in the middle of a heatwave, and you still can't see the sun.)

"We want you to work for us," Blunt tells him, face impassive, eyes unseeing. In his mind's eye, he already has Alex exactly where he wants him – at the talkies with a box of Black Magic, having accepted the gift of the orchid with blushing, gushing thanks.

That's what all teenagers like, isn't it?

For once, Alex's Stock Reaction No. 1 (blank confusion – not to be confused with his Stock Reactions Nos. 2 and 3 (blank terror and merely blank, respectively)), is appropriate. As Phyllis herself would say: what the fuck?

Wait, maybe that's just me.

Phyll?

Still out. Good, good. She's been showing resistance to the tranqs recently.

"You're not being serious?" Alex asks. _No one_ wants Alex to work for them – even his usual customers have trailed off during the recession. (Little luxuries are the first things to go.)

"Actually, it's not my habit to make jokes. Please, Alex. Please, grant me your favour, and I will do all I can to be worthy of it."

There's a box of Milk Tray hidden in his desk. He hopes that later he will have Alex on his knee – though that might be a tad forward for the first time they step out together.

"Well, you're making one now."

Hurt, Blunt retreats behind a veneer of professionalism. His eyebrows lower, and you can already see him wondering whether you can return Milk Tray within the first twenty-eight days of purchase.

"I don't wanna be a spy! In case you hadn't noticed, I'm at school!"

As we established, Alex. You're not.

Alex's impenetrable stupidity would be a real asset for him in the spy world. I have read the books – later in the film, he is supposed to be interrogated; the fact that he can make a herd of rhinoceroses look like MENSA can only be a benefit to him. What it will not be, however, is of use to him in gathering information – because he can't retain information. One feels it has taken him the better part of a decade to remember what a school is, let alone that he should be in one. (He does, after all, have a habit of misunderstanding the function of things.)

Blunt, bereft of options, goes on a thought process all his own, and attempts a little judicious emotional blackmail. This would work, had Ian Rider not been what one might call a 'hands-off' father figure. (And by 'hands off', I mean 'in another country'. And who among us can blame him?)

"What a great – shame. Your uncle would be so disappointed ... letting him down ... letting the country down... causing rack and ruin... emotional trauma... a whole Milk Tray bought... Is this working yet?"

Behind Alex, Mrs. Jones is making frantic motions to shut her boss up. "No, no, no!" she mutters, reaching for the tranqs.

I could recommend her some.

"But then, I suppose," Blunt says, blissfully unaware of his foray down the well-trod path of insanity, "... young people..."

They never appreciate a good variety show, do they? Honestly.

Alex, for the first, last and only time in this film, makes a valid point. "How can you say that? He wouldn't want me to be here! He spent his whole life making sure I never knew anything about this!"

"Really?" says Blunt, ignoring the – surprising – sense of what Alex has pointed out and choosing instead to answer an entirely different question, as yet unposed. "Then how do you explain this?"

'This' is a short clip of Alex's orgy – I mean, 'fight' in the scrap-yard, which Blunt is doubtless keeping for a different (possibly late-night) purpose. He almost certainly has a collection of Pervert Jackets to rival Jimmy Carr's lining his coffin.

Apparently, Alex's bizarre ritual flailing in the scrap-yard was not just the hallmark of a clot, but 'first-rate martial arts moves, perfectly executed.' Please tell me what part of shoving your crotch in a man's face comprises martial arts expertise? If only I'd known. All these years I've been doing much the same thing. I could be in for another qualification! And it would have been a damn sight more useful than my Girl Guide Folk Singer badge (no really).

He goes on to point out that Alex has been versed in multiple languages, scuba-diving (not necessarily the most useful qualification for a spy, but whatever), mountain climbing (ditto, though we have already covered Ian's daydreams of shoving his nephew off a glacier), abseiling (so near, SO NEAR; he hadn't realised that Alex had tied the rope around his legs while he wasn't looking), white-water-rafting (after Ian had conceded that mountains were a no-go), shooting (you trust that kid with a gun?) and 'karat-eh'.

In fact, Blunt is mistaken. All of these hobbies were in fact Ian's attempts either to kill Alex or abandon him in foreign countries. And why should this in any way constitute Ian telling Al"ex that he was a spy? I can only assume that Ian set up Alex's entire life as a giant game of Twenty Questions.

"Uncle! Uncle! Why am I learning karate?"

Ian's mind, warped by so many years' proximity to Blunt and this hellhole, somehow converts this into: "Are you training me to be a teenage spy?"

"...yes."

Anyway, back to Blunt. "He was training you."

But that's still not telling you! Anyway, my parents paid for Political Studies and Etiquette classes. That didn't automatically make me a minor league dictator! No! I had to show _initiative_. Alex hasn't shown initiative! Alex barely shows basic cognitive functions! _He cycled the wrong way through traffic._

"That's not how it was," Alex whines, remembering his World Whining Championship duties. "You're trying to spoil everything." Poor Alex. There's so little spoil. "He came to my school play in Year 4! I was a tree, you know! A tree!"

He hasn't changed.

"Please put me back in the photo booth and show me the way out." That sentence stands or falls by its own merit. It's still screaming on the way down.

"I'm surprised at you. I'd have thought you'd want to get back at the people who killed your uncle."

Firstly, I'm not sure you would. These people have guns. And although we've already commented on Alex's total lack of self-preservation (_wrong. Way. Through. Traffic_), I think writing a strongly-worded letter of complaint would suffice. And manslaughter and homicide are complicated things. Just thinking of the ensuing paperwork makes me shudder.

Blunt, emotional blackmail having failed, moves onto the more straightforward kind. He seems to have undue confidence in both Alex's emotional attachment to Jack "Slave" Starbright and also the efficiency of our Border Control.

Whatever he says – it's difficult to tell through the subliminal messaging about Milk Trays and talkies – seems to work, because the next thing we (and probably Alex, too) are aware of is Alex being carted off by force to the Special Forces Training Camp in the Brecon Beacons.

And it is here we leave you, my darlings. I need to make sure Phyllis hasn't choked on her own vomit. Sometimes she has an adverse reaction to the tranqs... you know how it is...

Until we next time, lovely, lovely, little people, when we will watch Alex frolic with the Special Forces. In every sense of the word.


End file.
